


The Domestic Life of Mr. and Mrs. Rogers

by thegraytigress



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Domestic Avengers, F/M, Family, Fluff, Parenthood, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-21 13:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 52
Words: 204,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3693587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being an Avenger is pretty incredible. Being in love through it all? Even more so. These are snapshots of Steve and Natasha as they build a life and a family together and fall more and more for each other every day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Easter

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ is the property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** T (for language)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Anyone want some fluff? :-) These are a bunch of short stories filled with happy times, love, and tooth-rotting sweetness that cover the domestic life of Steve, Nat, and their friends and family. They're not related to _Heart of the Storm_ (although I might incorporate or borrow some of these if I need them). This is my first time writing random stuff that has little to no semblance of plot, so we'll see how I do. To see the chapters in chronological order and all the wonderful artwork inspired by this story, check [here!](http://thegraytigress.tumblr.com/thedomesticlife)

When the bright spring sunlight hit them, there could be absolutely zero doubt that James was Steve’s son.  Everything from the highlights of his perpetually mussed blond hair to the glow of his baby blue eyes to the build of his little body to the way he walked…  Natasha wondered (not for the first time) if there was any part of her in him.  There probably was somewhere.  After all, she had pretty vivid memories of making him.  And birthing him.  So she’d made contributions to him.  But with her two boys out hunting in the park, James insisting on carrying his little basket with his father trying to help him without _helping_ him, practically mirror images of each other…  Well.

“They’re like the same person,” Tony grumbled from beside her.  Apparently great minds thought alike.  He shook his head.  “Look at them.  It’s disgusting.”

She was looking at them.  Looking at them and melting just a little more with each moment.  James had Steve’s expression of sheer determination tight on his face, his cheeks flushed, eyes narrowed in concentration as he scoured the grass and flower beds and bushes for Easter eggs.  He seemed oddly directed, like he knew where to look.  From her vantage up the slight hill she couldn’t really see the eggs, but they could, and they were precise in their acquisition of them.  Tactical.  She’d never been a big one for Easter (or most holidays, come to think of it), but this seriously brought cute to a level even she couldn’t deny.  James was toddling further down the little hill now, the top of his diaper peeking out from under his pants, and Steve was pointing something out to him in a thatch of grass.  He ran over, every step threatening to topple him, and stuck his chubby hand into the spot.  Sure enough, he found yet another egg, this one pink.  She heard Steve say something to him, and he was quick to put it in his basket.  His basket that was already loaded thick with eggs of every color imaginable.  Were there any left for the tons of other kids roaming the park on the hunt?  Part of her felt guilty.  A pretty small part.

“You know, if you’d have let me help, we could have been done with this, like, an hour ago,” Tony declared quietly to her.

“Stark, we haven’t even _been_ here an hour,” she reminded.

“Yeah, well, the point is Banner and I had it all figured out.  We were gonna build this egg detector thing, you know, something that could sense albumin or I dunno…  Put it in a toy or something for James…  Something he could carry around without attracting suspicion.  It was going to be awesome.  He’d find all the eggs in record time.  Bam.  Done.  We’re back home, having chocolate and beer.”  She shot Stark an incredulous glance that said _Seriously?_ far better than she could actually say it.  “What?  Captain Stick-Up-His-Butt told me that wasn’t fair.”

“It’s not.”

“But it would be awesome.  And a very Black Widow approach.  Spy-like.”  She had to admit that was true.  “Who would know?  And like it’s fair having Captain America for a father.  Look at that basket.  He can hardly lift it.  It’s ridiculous.”

That was true.  And James being James wasn’t letting Steve do it for him.  He was trying to half lug, half carry it back up the hill all by himself.  _Definitely his father’s son._ Natasha smiled, dropped her arms from where they’d been folded across her chest, and waved.  “Well, it looks like they’re done.  So you can stop whining.”  Tony huffed a little.  Natasha couldn’t help but compare the state of James’ little basket to those of the other kids.  It was pathetic (and childish) but she was kind of proud to see that he did have more.  “And it looks like they found every egg imaginable, so there.”

“It’s about efficiency, Red.”

As Steve and James got closer, she saw there’d been battle damage in James’ quest.  His little khaki pants had a couple of grass stains on the knees.  His cornflower blue polo shirt was untucked.  But that didn’t stop him from breaking into an all-out sloppy run when he saw his mother.  “Mama!  Mama!”

Natasha dropped to a crouch, her spring dress fanning out around her.  “Did you have fun?  What did you find?”

“Eggs!”  He proudly held up his basket (or tried to), that huge sprawl of Steve’s grin on his face.  “Look!  Look!”  All his L’s sounded like W’s.

Natasha made a show of peeking through his treasure trove of eggs.  “Wow, baby.  You found all of these?”

He beamed.  “Daddy help.”

“A little,” Steve agreed as he came up behind him.  “He did most of it.”

“Could have done better,” Tony sing-songed as he turned to head back to the car.

“Cheating on an Easter egg hunt.  That’s a new low for you,” Steve reprimanded lightly.  Tony waved him off.  Steve smiled devilishly, dropping his tone once Tony was out of ear-shot.  “Besides, who needs technology?”

Natasha rolled her eyes, sweeping her hand through James’ hair before straightening his clothes a little.  “Tell me you left some for the other kids.”

He shrugged.  “Some.”  She gave him a deadpan look.  “What?  Not our fault that we’re _really good_ at finding things, right, kiddo?”  Steve crouched and hauled James’ giggling form up into his embrace.  James laughed and laughed, flinging his arms around his father’s neck as Steve manhandled him around a little before settling him against his side.  Then he wrapped his other arm around Natasha’s waist and pulled her against him, too.  His lips found hers in a kiss that was maybe not entirely proper for the occasion, but she didn’t exactly find herself stopping him.  Maybe there wasn’t a lot of her in their son, but she’d sure rubbed off on her husband.  “Found you, didn’t I?”

She smiled, reached down, lifted James’ eggs, and shook her head.  “You sure did.”  And, on this perfect day, she was so very, _very_ glad for that.


	2. Something Between Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I make no excuses. This is tooth-rotting.

They should have gotten up ages ago, but there really wasn’t a reason to.  The sun was streaming through the large windows of their bedroom, bright and pleasant but not overly pressing.  They had no plans for that day.  Absolutely _no_ plans.  Nothing to do.  That was a rare occurrence in their busy and dangerous lives.  And they were both home together.  No operations for SHIELD to run or missions for the Avengers to fight.  Just a normal, mundane, _lazy_ Sunday.  These were so few and far in between that they were practically a delicacy.

That was a good way of putting it.  Natasha couldn’t help but moan something that sounded like a cat’s purr as Steve sidled up a little closer to her and tugged her toward him.  She had a vague, sleepy memory of him doing that a while ago (a few hours maybe?  She couldn’t remember, and she really didn’t care).  He’d wrapped an arm around her, tight and possessive, kissing his way up her hip and tickling her ribs to the her neck and trapping her close to him.  That was one of the things she loved best about sleeping with Captain America.  He was big _(mind out of the gutter, Romanoff)_ and hot _(out of the gutter!  Out!)_ and pretty much an all-encompassing, sprawling source of strength and security.  It had taken her some time to get used to sleeping with that, with someone who was so into cuddling _close_ , snuggling and hugging and always being the big spoon.  There was a certain level of vulnerability in being someone else’s pillow, and she’d been his from the moment they’d fallen into bed together (fully clothed, mind you) one night after a rough mission five years ago.  Considering what she had done and who she had been, she hadn’t been terribly comfortable with that amount of personal contact.  With that amount of trust and exposure.  It had certainly been an adjustment, learning to be so open and giving.  He was handsy and heavy and hot as a furnace, and she wondered if he’d always been that way, holding tight to someone at night just for the comfort of _knowing_ he wasn’t alone, or if that had been a product of the ice and waking up in the future.  She suspected it was a combination of that and who he was.  It didn’t matter.  Once he’d started sleeping with her, he latched on and hadn’t let her go since.

And she’d gotten so accustomed to it that she missed him like crazy when he wasn’t there, like there was a black hole in bed beside her that was sucking her in to bury her face into the pillows on his side and _breathe_ because every nerve in her body was tingling with his absentness.

But he was there now.  She beamed in excitement, sighing happily into her hands where they were folded under her cheek and absolutely content to let him slowly wake her with his fingers and lips and reverent touch.  He didn’t.  And when she realized she’d been waiting a moment or two, she got curious (and annoyed) enough to open her eyes and let the morning light dash the last remnants of sleep from her head.

“Ever feel like there’s something coming between us?”

Steve’s soft question was practically thunderous in the peaceful silence.  Confused, Natasha rolled onto her back to look at him only to find him propped on his elbow, his mouth quirked into an amused smile as he pointed down at a little lump positioned between them.  It was burrowed under the white of their duvet, but a messy tuft of thin blond hair was sticking out.  Heart swelling, she watched as Steve lifted the duvet a little to reveal James, curled up in a ball on his knees with his little butt sticking up in the air.  He was sucking his thumb, little lips curled around it, long lashes pressed tightly to cherubic cheeks that were rosy pink with sleep.  His diaper was peeking out of his pajama pants.  It was pretty adorable.  “How does he always sneak in here without us noticing?” she murmured.

Steve grunted a chuckle.  “Well, he is your son.  Sneaking is what you do.”  He looked down, quietly and carefully covering James with the duvet again.  “Better question is how does he keep escaping his crib?”

“He’s _your_ son.  Being difficult is what _you_ do.  Did you honestly expect him to just stay wherever we put him?  To be thwarted by a crib?”

Steve cocked an eyebrow at that.  “Good point,” he conceded.  Seeing James sufficiently recovered, he settled back down against the pillows, closing his eyes with a heavy sigh and sagging blissfully like he was going back to sleep.

Not acceptable.  “Aren’t you going to put him back in his bed?” Natasha whispered.

“You do it,” he said.  “I did it last time.”

She wasn’t getting up.  It was cold out there (well, not really, but _colder_ ), and their bed was warm and soft and perfect and it was Sunday morning and she _wasn’t doing it._   “He’s your son.  Put him back.”

“Too tired,” he replied.  He cracked opened his eyes to slits of blue and smiled sloppily at her.  “’Sides, he likes it here.”

What wasn’t there to like?  Sleeping nestled up between his parents.  Natasha looked down at James again.  His head was peeking out more from under the duvet now, his face scrunched up in a little expression of effort like he was working hard at dreaming.  It was the same expression Steve had sometimes when he slept.  And he seemed so small, curled into a ball as he was, against his father’s huge chest.  The more she looked, the more she couldn’t bring herself to bother him.  The thought of disturbing this and ruining the picture…  Well, her heart swelled, and any plans to do anything other than contentedly lie there with the men in her life pretty much went out the window.  “I guess he’s pretty effective birth control.”

Steve blushed.  She loved it.  “Lord, Nat, don’t say that around him.”

“What?  He’s sleeping.  And he wouldn’t get it anyway.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Shut it and snuggle me, Rogers.”

He rolled his eyes, pulled James gently closer to him until he was practically on his chest, and reached long arms out to her.  She scooted closer, trapping James pretty tightly between them but being careful not to smother him.  She watched him sleep, memorizing his face like she had so many times in the past.  How was it possible to love someone this much?  She’d never fathomed it, never thought herself capable.  But Steve had taught her she was.  And James had taught her, too.  She pressed a long kiss to the top of James’ head and then an equally long kiss to Steve’s lips.  Sighing deeply, she buried her face into the nape of Steve’s neck.  He smelled like home.

“I like it here, too,” he murmured into the crown of her head.

She smiled, letting her eyes close and sinking entirely into this moment.  “Yeah.”  _Me, too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out this lovely artwork inspired by this chapter by the talented [vbprodz](http://vbprodz.tumblr.com)!


	3. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This is loosely inspired on real events. As in this sort of happened to me. Minus the agent of SHIELD and the Avengers aspect of it :-).

Natasha was glad to be coming home.

No, glad didn’t really describe it.  Relieved.  Thrilled.  _Ecstatic._   This was the longest she’d been away since James had been born.  Fury had sent her and Clint to the other side of the world on a long, complicated mission for SHIELD.  They been tracking down some stolen bioweapons, and once they’d finally located them after days of investigating and sneaking around, their directives had changed from figuring out where they were to reclaiming them by any means necessary.  Well, “any means necessary” had involved another three days of stealthily performing recon in Pakistan before carrying out a strike operation that hadn’t exactly gone off without a hitch.  The number of reports she’d need to write to cover the property damage and media fall-out was depressing, to say the least.

Still, she and Clint had gotten the job done successfully and without casualties.  The weapons were safely in SHIELD custody.  They were both back in the States with only a few scrapes and bumps to show for it.  However, the whole thing had taken days longer than originally planned.  All said and done, she’d been gone for almost a week.  And she’d spent the entire time thinking about Steve, worrying about James, wanting to be with them…  She hadn’t expected that to be so persistent.  It hadn’t negatively impacted her abilities in the field; her concentration and capacity to get the job done were as infallible as ever, but every slow second spent doing recon, on down-time, or simply _waiting_ for something to happen had been filled with thoughts of home.  Since this was her first time away for an extended period, it was also Steve’s first time handling everything on his own.  Not that she didn’t think he could.  But there was a niggling voice of dissension and doubt in the back of her mind, because as wonderful as Steve was as a husband and a father and a leader and a soldier, as amazing he was as Captain America, he frankly wasn’t the world’s best at mundane things.  Simple things like doing the laundry and sticking to a schedule and staying on top of silly little tasks like washing dishes.  And she was a little obsessive-compulsive about keeping things neat.  It was weird and threw people for a loop, their little role-reversal, that Captain America was more of a slob and Black Widow was the neat-freak.  So she was concerned about him holding down the fort, so to speak.  _What if he can’t?_

_What if James needs me?_

And then there’d been other thoughts.  These were even more surprising, though they really shouldn’t have been, she supposed.  Thoughts about how much she missed her little family.  She’d gotten so used to being with them, seeing them and holding them and being _together_ , that it was almost an aching need to go home.  She missed the sound of Steve’s voice; she hadn’t been able to call because the mission had been sensitive so it had required radio silence.  She missed holding James.  She _really_ missed that.  She missed their routine.  Play time and bath time and bed time.  She missed it all so much.  It was pretty pathetic after only being gone a week, but she felt like she’d lost so much time.  She wanted her boys back.

 _And_ , on top of all that, she was sore and worn out, physically and mentally.  The thought of coming _home_ (home, when she’d never had one before marrying Steve) was so alluring, so powerful, that she could hardly wait, hardly stand it.  The familiarity.  The smells.  The way things felt.  The sense of security and peace and being able to leave her cares behind.  She was going to eat dinner, put James to bed, read him a story, hold him until he fell asleep…  Take an actual bath for _as long as she wanted…_   Sleep in her own bed with her husband right there to massage away the aches from seven hard days of stress…

The drive home from the Triskelion had never taken so long.  It was getting late, almost past dinnertime, and she was cold and famished and about ready to collapse as she’d finally pulled into their driveway.  At long last she opened the door to their house, entirely prepared to do just that, collapse and relax and sink into much-deserved bliss in her peaceful, quiet home.

Apparently that was just not in the cards.

“James!  _James!_   Get back here!  Right now or I’ll – oh.  Hi, honey.”

 _Honey._   Steve only used pet names like that when he knew he was in really big trouble.  And trouble didn’t even begin to describe _this._   The mess greeting her was way, _way_ beyond trouble.

She barely had a chance to drop her bags and catch her two year-old son as he vaulted across the floor toward her.  At least, she thought it was her two-year son.  The wriggling, squirming thing against her was hardly recognizable because it was _completely_ covered in white powder.  It took her a second to realize what it was.  Flour.  And it was instantly all over her pants and the bottom of her shirt.  And like she couldn’t lift him up when he was trying to climb his way up her legs and holding him had been all she’d been thinking about for days.  “Mama!  Mama!” he cried excitedly.  One swoop of him into her arms had flour all over the rest of her.  She coughed at a burst of it into her face.  “Mama!  Look!  Daddy and me cook!”

She looked.  Boy, did she ever look.  Her jaw veritably dropped in shock, eyes widening.  There was a fairly sizeable trail of white leading into the once immaculate kitchen, a path spread far and wide by the thunder of little feet.  The offending empty bag of floor was limp on the tiled floor beside the island in the kitchen, flanked by mountains of white.  Flour was _everywhere_ , ingrained even into the grout between the tiles.  White hand prints were all over the cabinets, spreading into the dinette where James’ dinner was half-eaten and abandoned on the table.  But the mess went beyond that.  A slew of dirtied pots and pans covered the counter-tops.  There were utensils everywhere, ladles and spoons and tongs, and a cluttered slew of supplies and ingredients.  Whatever he was making smelled good, but there was the slight hint of _burning_ underneath the aroma.

And it wasn’t even the kitchen, for crying out loud.  James’ toys (of which he had way too many, thanks to his Uncle Tony) were strewn everywhere.  Seemingly every single one he owned was spread in a jumbled array across the kitchen floor, the living room, the dining room, the hallway…  She’d left Steve a honey-do list which had included cleaning up after James every day.  And cleaning up after himself.  And doing the laundry, the laundry that was still sitting in a basket on the kitchenette table of all places, getting more wrinkled by the second.  Steve had books and files spread on the coffee table.  And his jacket and James’ jacket on the back of a chair rather than hanging up.  A few empty sippy cups were dumped all over the floor, obviously having been dropped during a hasty run from one thing to another.  It was a complete and utter disaster.

“Mama, we cooked,” James said again, beaming, his cheeks so covered in white that he looked like a plump ghost.

Natasha coughed as she brushed the flour from his hair and was rewarded with another puff into her face.  “You did, huh,” she said humorlessly, turning her best glare onto her husband, who was standing beside the island.  He, too, was covered in flour, his jeans and shirt white with it.

And he was wincing.  “Okay, before you kill me, just listen.”

“Oh, I’m listening,” she said quietly.  “I’m waiting to hear a _really_ good explanation.  Then I’ll decide what to do with you.”

He blanched.  Some part of her thought that was cute.  The other part, the one covered with flour and seething at the mess after being gone for _only a week_ …  Well, that part was vindictively thrilled to see him squirm.  His words came fast and desperate.  “Okay, first, the house has _not_ been like this the whole time you were gone.  Right, James?”  James didn’t exactly come to his father’s defense, too intent on snuggling with his mother.  Steve grimaced again.  “Traitor.  It wasn’t, I swear.  And when Clint called to say you were back, he sounded really worn out.  I figured you were probably worse.  So I thought, since I needed to run out and get dinner anyway, that I’d cook something.”

“You.  Cook something.”  Steve Rogers was many things, but a chef was not one of them.

“Yeah, you know, some comfort food.  James and I went to the store and we came back here and I got started and about halfway through before I realized I might have possibly bitten off more than I could chew.”

She stared at him, using _the look_ she reserved for the world’s worst terrorists, incompetent junior SHIELD agents, and Stark when he was doing something particularly annoying.  It was always particularly effective on him.  Steve swallowed thickly.  “You bit off more than you could chew,” she repeated slowly.

“Um, maybe?”  She felt her eyelid twitch.  “Yes?”

James finally squirmed to get down, so she set him on the floor.  He immediately went back to the mounds of flour, where he’d apparently been molding hills and then slamming chubby hands into his piles.  Steve scrambled to get him.  “I was trying to make my mom’s Irish stew.”  That came out of left-field, so much so that she didn’t process it at first.  “I mean, I wanted to make something that was comfort food for you, but I didn’t know what, and her stew always made me feel better when I was a kid and was sick or tired or cold or just was having a bad day.  So I was trying to make that, which I did, I think, but I got stuff for soda bread, too, and that I burned, and while I was trying to deal with that, he musta reached up on the counter and pulled the flour and…”  Steve shook his head, his face genuinely and sincerely stricken.  “Nat, I’m sorry.  I just wanted to make your homecoming special.  You know, nice dinner…  Homemade for a change.”

She still couldn’t get over what he’d been trying to make for her.  “Your mother’s stew?”

He smiled sheepishly.  “Bucky always says it’s a cure-all for any situation.”  He wiped at his cheek, spreading flour in a powdery smear, and she couldn’t help but melt.  Just a little.  “I’m so sorry.  I’ll clean it all up.  I swear.”

Not surprisingly, it was hard to stay angry with a picture like that.  Impossible, really.  The two of them, thwarted by their own good intentions to make her homecoming special, covered in flour and looking entirely pathetic.  She tried to cling to her irritation, because he deserved it for making such a colossal mess.  But it was pointless.  She sighed, coming closer, barely avoiding walking through James’ flour trail.  She grabbed Steve’s shirt and pulled him in for a lengthy kiss.  James squirmed between them, giggling.  She basked in the moment but not too obviously.  She could at least _seem_ like she was mad, even if she wasn’t really.  “You better get started,” she ordered when she leaned away, “because this is _beyond_ large.”

He grinned.  “Yes, ma’am.  I will.  And I’ll make it up to you.”

“You will, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She scooped James out of his arms.  “I’ll get him ready for bed.”

She took James to the bathtub, where she drew him a warm bath and washed all the flour off.  There were other things she’d missed before under the layer of white.  Macaroni and cheese from dinner.  Juice.  Something else that was ridiculously sticky.  She wiped it away with lavender baby wash and then sat back to watch him splash with his tub toys for a second.  God, she’d missed him.  The long minutes she spent in there eased her tremendously, and she smiled and laughed and played with him for a bit until the water started to get cold.  Then she lifted him out, toweled him dry, and found his favorite Avengers pajamas in his room (which wasn’t much of a mess.  In fact, the rest of the house was in fairly good shape.  Not quite to her standards, but she’d forgive Steve for that).  She got him dressed, kissed him about a hundred more times, before tucking him into his crib.  He was getting a little big for it, and escaping it was becoming one of his favorite past-times.  It was probably time for a toddler bed.  Probably.

His adventures in the kitchen had worn him out because he was out like a light.  Natasha swept her hand up his cheek one more time, threading her fingers through the silky strands of his hair.  “Hey,” came Steve’s soft call from the door.  She turned.  He’d changed, but he still had flour on his face.  “Dinner’s ready.”

She left James to dream and went to Steve.  Abandoning any pretense of annoyance, she leaned unabashedly into his chest.  He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head.  She closed her eyes in contentment, breathing deeply.  “I missed you.”

She felt more than saw him smile.  “Missed you, too, Nat.”

True to his word, he’d cleaned everything up.  The kitchen wasn’t quite immaculate, but it was pretty close.  The flour was gone, scrubbed away.  The tons of dirty dishes were loaded into the now running dishwasher (Steve always preferred hand-washing on the occasions he did do the dishes, so the fact he’d resorted to modern technology proved how desperate he’d been to get the job done in the time allotted).  The counters and cabinets were wiped down.  The basket of laundry was gone, as were the clutter of papers and the disarray of toys and the remains of James’ dinner.  Even their jackets were hung.  “Good?” he asked, proud of himself.

She nodded.  “I might just forgive you for making me come home to that.”

He hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her closer.  Their next kiss was a tad more passionate.  Just a tad.  “You’ll forgive me,” he said against her mouth when he let her emerge for air.  “Quickly.”

“You’re awfully confident,” she teased.

“Sure am.  I know _exactly_ how to get to you.”

She laughed.  They sat down.  He served her and then poured them both glasses of red wine.  He was right; his mother’s stew was delicious.  She didn’t know what it was supposed to taste like, but whatever he’d concocted was hearty and thick and surprisingly just what she wanted on a chilly night.  All her tension was rapidly fading as they ate and talked and caught up with each other.  She told him about the mission.  He told her about the week James had spent with Daddy.  She figured he wasn’t quite being entirely truthful; some of their adventures seemed rather abridged, especially when Thor and Tony had become involved.  She supposed it was a minor miracle the house hadn’t been burned down.  “Dessert?” she asked when they were done.

“Burned it,” he reminded.

She grinned slyly.  “Better give me something else then.”

They barely made it to the bedroom.  And, as promised, he was quite diligent about making everything up to her.

And, just as he’d said she would, she forgave him.  Quickly.


	4. Namesake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** For an off-shoot that leads up to this chapter, check ["An Old Wives' Tale"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7539013). Bear in mind the ratings change :-).

Natasha couldn’t stop staring at him.  At James.  The tiny baby was nestled in her arms, wrapped in white swaddling and fast asleep after the monumentally exhausting effort of being born.  He was only a few hours old.  It was amazing and overwhelming and incredible and…  God, she was tired.  Tired but so exhilarated at the same time.  She couldn’t sleep.  After a crazy twelve-hour labor, she was beyond exhausted, but every nerve in her body was tingling and alive.  She was sore and overwhelmed and brimming with more emotions than she could parse, let alone understand.  She’d never imagined it would be like this, and she’d spent nine months doing nothing but imagining what it would be like.

James gurgled a little, his lips pressing together as he slept.  She held him closer, reaching a hand from beneath him to brush the little fuzz of blond hair away from his forehead.  His skin was so soft, so new.  She couldn’t quite get over that.  Or how tiny he was, considering how huge his father was.  Or that he was finally here.  It had felt like an eternity yet no time at all since she’d discovered she was pregnant.  It had taken her rather by surprise; the Red Room had rendered her sterile in her adolescence, and she’d been told by numerous SHIELD doctors that she’d never be able to conceive.  That had been before she’d met and married Steve Rogers, though.  Apparently the super soldier serum was more than just super.  It had enhanced, well, _every part_ of Steve.  They’d both been shocked out of their minds.  And now…

She didn’t feel any more certain of herself.  She’d come to terms with falling in love with Steve and marrying him and getting pregnant.  More or less.  It had been a difficult adjustment at times, switching from being a world-famous assassin who attached herself to nothing and no one to becoming the wife of Captain America.  She’d faced difficult situations before, but this had been far more daunting and more terrifying.  Still, step by step and little by little, Steve had unraveled her, remade her in a way that no one else ever had (and she’d been remade more times than she cared to remember in her life).  Her world had been shifting gradually since escaping the Red Room and joining SHIELD, since meeting Steve and becoming his partner and his friend and his second in command and finally his wife, that she’d looked back some months ago and realized she could have never pictured herself walking the road she’d walked.  But walk it she had.

That road had just taken a major turn.  And she was ecstatic and terrified and so, so happy all at once.

A slight knock interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up.  The door opened slowly to reveal a very nervous Bucky Barnes.  He looked well, clean-shaven and dressed casually with his hair gathered in a fairly neat pony tail.  His metal arm was covered by a leather jacket and a glove.  Bucky was fairly unreadable; even after escaping the brainwashing to which he’d been subjected by HYDRA, a great deal of the Winter Soldier still remained ingrained into his psyche, like a shadow he simply couldn’t shake.  One thing that lingered was the way he closed himself off emotionally.  Natasha knew it well; it had taken her years (and falling for Steve) to shake that particular defense mechanism for a damaged spirit.  To Steve, he was always who he had been: a friend and brother and soldier and war hero.  A good man.  So Bucky was open around Steve, smiling and warm with affection.  To everyone else, though…  They only knew the assassin, the terrifying weapon.  The Winter Soldier.  They were growing to learn about and like the man underneath that, but it wasn’t always easy.  So he was guarded around everyone else.  And he had a guarded smile on his face now.  “Okay if I come in?”

She nodded, and he opened the door wider to slip inside.  He came closer on light footfalls.  “Where’s Steve?” he asked quietly.

Natasha tipped her head to the side a little.  On one of the uncomfortable looking recliners half hidden behind the room’s privacy curtain, Steve was absolutely passed out.  His tall frame looked pretty ridiculous scrunched up like it was, and he had a blanket that was a couple of feet too small all cuddled up around his face.  He’d abandoned his mission for SHIELD the second Tony had reached him to let him know it was time and had raced back to New York, barely arriving before James had come into the world.  Frankly, he should never have been away, but this mission had really required Captain America’s skills.  He’d had a good few minutes to spare.  If he had missed his son’s birth, he would have been devastated.

And Natasha might have killed him.  Maybe.  If not for that than for making her go through the ordeal she’d just been through.  She’d suffered through some painful and unpleasant things in her life.  Childbirth was up there.  At least the payoff was, well, _perfect_ and sleeping in her arms _._

In any case, like his son, Steve had fallen asleep not long ago, drained from the prolonged battle he’d left behind and the flight he’d taken home and the hours of wonder and emotional upheaval since then.  She’d let him collapse.  It was alright because she’d had James all to herself.

“You give birth and _he’s_ the one getting rest?” Bucky said with mock shame and disgust all over his face.  “Lazy punk.”

Natasha smiled.  “Why didn’t you come earlier?  Everyone else was here.”  Everyone else had been there.  Tony and Pepper, bearing overly abundant gifts and blue balloons and floral arrangements that now brightly adorned the hospital room.  Clint, smiling a knowing, relieved smile.  Bruce, more alive with joy than she’d ever seen before.  Thor, loud with pride and arms open.  Sam, positively jittery with excitement.  Their friends and family, crowding around the birth of the first “Avengers” baby (as Tony had put it).  Bucky had been conspicuously missing.

She knew his answer before he gave it.  He gave a sad, sedate smile.  “Didn’t seem right.”  Even a couple years after coming back into Steve’s life, Bucky still struggled with his guilt over what he’d done, what he’d been _forced_ to do, as the Winter Soldier.  How badly he’d hurt Steve.  It had taken the Avengers some time to get over that, to accept it and make their peace with it.  It had taken Natasha the longest.  The long hours she’d spent at Steve’s bedside as he’d struggled for his life in the ICU, his body riddled with the Winter Soldier’s bullets and broken from the Winter Soldier’s rage…  Forgiving that had been difficult.  Steve had done it immediately, barely recovered from his injuries and immediately up trying to find his tormented and lost childhood friend.  Natasha had struggled with it for months.  It was made more complicated by her own past with the Winter Soldier, before she’d known him as Bucky Barnes.  He’d helped train her, served the Red Room as an instructor.  He’d shot her before, too.  And if it hadn’t been for Steve’s endless capacity to see the best in everyone, his faith in his friend, she’d never have been able to make it to this point where Bucky was a welcomed guest when she was at her most vulnerable.

Bucky came closer, taking slow, tentative steps.  He lifted his chin toward the bundle in Natasha’s arms.  “That him?”

Natasha nodded.  “Come see.”

He did, but she could tell how uncertain and uncomfortable he was.  He took a moment to gather himself, took a moment to _ground_ himself and convince himself that this was okay.  This was his place.  This was his best friend’s baby and she was his best friend’s wife.  That was all too incredible to accept sometimes.  Natasha and Bucky had that much in common: a grand inability to process the fact that Steve loved them both and that they both _deserved_ it.

Bucky finally reached the bedside, looking down on the sleeping newborn in Natasha’s arms.  There was a chair there, and he sank slowly into it, his gray eyes never leaving the baby’s peaceful face.  “God Almighty,” he breathed in wonder.  “He looks just like his dad.”

“Yeah, he does,” Natasha agreed.  That was the most amazing thing to her, she realized.  The baby resembled Steve so much, from his bright blue eyed to the slope of his little nose to the curve of his lips to the fluff of blond hair atop his head.  If she hadn’t gone through the unpleasantness of laboring to bring him into the world, she would have thought he’d come from someone else because there seemed to be nothing of her in him.  That was alright, though.  For all her doubts and fears and unease about becoming a mother, she was realizing now that she’d fallen in love with him months ago, when he’d been nothing but a promise growing inside her.  Now he was real and there and so beautiful, and she couldn’t imagine loving him any more than she did at that moment.

But then the next moment came.  And the one after that.  And she was loving him more with each one.

It was silent, both of them watching the baby.  “What did you name him?” Bucky finally asked.

“James,” she replied softly with a smile.  Bucky’s reaction was predictable: wide-eyed, slack-jawed, utter _shock._   “That’s what Steve wanted to name him the minute we found out he was a boy.”

Bucky looked from her to the baby to the baby’s unbelievably, _perfectly_ sentimental father, still snoring softly in the recliner.  “The minute you found out…  That was months ago.”

“He wanted it to be a surprise,” Natasha explained.  “And he didn’t want you to have a chance to talk him out of it.”

Bucky was simultaneously annoyed, angry, and so very touched.  His eyes filled with tears.  A weak attempt at a scowl that was directed at Steve faded into a tender, trembling frown as he looked down.  “He shouldn’t–”

“He should,” Natasha said.  She shrugged gently.  “You know him.  He never for a moment even considered anything else.”

Bucky still couldn’t quite get his mind wrapped around this.  That Steve had wanted to name his son after him, given all the damage he’d done.  Given how damaged he still was.  He swallowed thickly, struggling to keep his emotions in check.  “And you’re okay with that?” he finally asked, his voice hoarse with emotion.

Not long ago, she wouldn’t have been.  But she’d grown to respect Bucky, to accept him, to see past the things HYDRA had made him do and appreciate the man beneath the legacy of the Winter Soldier.  Steve’s unfaltering devotion for him had helped with her own understanding, because if Steve could stand by him despite the pain he’d caused, could _love_ him so unquestioningly when he’d had every reason not to, then there was something there worth loving.  And there was.  There really was.  “He wouldn’t be who he is without you.”

A tear tracked its way down Bucky’s face, and that alone made this choice worth it.  He smiled through that, wiping his cheek and nodding.  “Hate cryin’ over good times.”

 _That’s how you know the good times are really good._   As crazy as it was, she was learning that more each day.  “You want to hold him?”

He looked terrified a moment.  But Natasha only smiled and nodded.  Carefully she handed Bucky’s namesake to him.  Bucky seemed rigid with fear as he took James into his arms, the leather of his jacket crinkling.  And he seemed mortified of touching the baby with his metal hand, his hand that Natasha knew symbolized so much violence and trauma and self-hatred for him.  But he did.  James squeaked as Bucky settled him in the crook of his right arm, the fingers of his left hand coming to push the swaddling blankets gently away from his little face.  He did nothing but stare for a long time, stare and smile more and more.  Eventually he looked up at Natasha.  “I have no idea what I’m doin’,” he admitted breathlessly.

“Me neither,” she agreed with a few happy tears of her own.

Bucky laughed.  “He’s beautiful.”  His voice was reverent, joyous.  Like he was cradling the embodiment of everything good and pure he still was.  Somehow Natasha had a feeling that that was what Steve wanted.  “Is it alright if I hold him a bit?”

“Sure.  We can wake Steve, too, if you want to go.”

Bucky glanced at his best friend.  “Nah,” he said, stroking a finger down James’ cheek and smiling with so much love and peace.  “Let him sleep.”


	5. The Bee's Knees

Little James Rogers loved all his uncles of course, but Uncle Bucky was special.  It wasn’t just because he’d been named after Uncle Bucky; his two year-old mind really had no concept of what that meant, even if his father and Uncle Bucky himself kept proudly reminding him of that fact.  And it wasn’t just because of all his uncles (and he had quite a few), Bucky was around the most, particularly when his mama was gone.  Bucky was _fun_ (which, again, wasn’t to say his other uncles weren’t, but Bucky let him get away with almost anything).  James and Bucky were buds.

It wasn’t often that both Natasha and Steve were gone at the same time, but it did happen on occasion.  They worked hard to limit those occurrences, but world crises inevitably happened, and the Avengers inevitably assembled, and James was left to whoever was available to watch him, which was most commonly Bucky.  At first, he hadn’t been at all sure about this arrangement.  It wasn’t because he had no experience around children; he’d had three younger sisters, and, being the oldest, he knew plenty about entertaining babies and toddlers and helping in their care.  But when Steve had first suggested he stay with James alone, well…  He’d been involved in James’ life from the get-go, from his first hours in this world, and he’d been there for every significant moment since then.  His first evening home.  His first steps.  His first birthday and first words.  Well, maybe not _right there_ for some of it, but he’d always come over to see, to enjoy, to laugh and hug and kiss and play, to share in Steve’s love and pride over his son.  Bucky loved James like James was his own, and part of him _was._   His name.  And Steve and Natasha had welcomed him with open arms into their family.

At first he’d been uncertain about it.  And he’d flat-out refused to be left alone with James, despite the number of times Steve had insisted it was okay.  It hadn’t been okay.  He wasn’t who he had been, no matter how Steve refused to see it, let alone admit it.  He was dark and damaged, a murderer and a monster who’d put this kid’s father – _his best friend_ – in the ICU.  If that didn’t preclude him from being so closely involved, he didn’t know what did.  He knew he was in good control of himself now.  His recovery from HYDRA’s brainwashing was slow but steady, and most days he discovered he’d found a new way of being _normal._   But he hadn’t trusted himself to care for James alone, didn’t share Steve’s unerring faith in him.  He couldn’t, because if he ever did something to hurt Steve or his family…

 _“Don’t do this to yourself,”_ Natasha had told him once.  _“You can’t think that.  If I’m good enough to love him, then so are you.”_   She hadn’t specified to whom she was referring, Steve or James.  And it didn’t matter.  James was in some ways an extension of Steve, a part of what Steve had given her and given them all.  Something sweet and innocent and pure.  A second chance.  A new life.  Natasha knew better than anyone who he was and what he’d done, and if even she trusted him with the people she loved most in this world, then he had to be worthy of that.

It had been out of necessity the first time it had happened.  With the Avengers being called to fight yet another (but thankfully smaller) alien invasion and Pepper being across the country in Malibu, Bucky had been the only option for child care and conveniently already over for dinner.  James had been six months old at the time and sleeping when the call had come in, and Steve had assured him it would be alright.  All he had to do was just stay there and not worry because James would sleep and he just needed to keep an eye on him…  Well, James hadn’t stayed asleep. And Bucky had hesitated, pacing, letting him cry for a little while because he hadn’t known what to do or if he should do it.  This hadn’t been the first time he’d cared for the baby.  A couple weeks before, he’d watched James for a few hours while his parents lay passed out on the couch from complete exhaustion.  Both of them had been _right there._   Had something happened, had anything gone wrong, Steve had been close, capable of taking over, capable of protecting his son if need be (that felt just a bit stupid, but it was how he’d felt).  At that moment though, he’d been alone, with James’ parents halfway across the country, and there’d been no choice.  So eventually he’d forced himself to move, to get a bottle, to believe that he was still Bucky Barnes from Brooklyn who’d diapered his little sisters and who’d helped his ma with dressing them and who’d taken care of little Steve Rogers when he’d been nothing more than a stick of a sick and scrawny thing…  He’d picked James up out of his crib, held him, rocked him, terrified James would be terrified _of him._   But he hadn’t been.  The baby had drunk his bottle, contented and peaceful, and Steve and Natasha had returned early the next morning with Bucky passed out in the glider in James’ room with James fast asleep in his arms.

And that was how Bucky turned into James’ best babysitter.

The two of them had become rather inseparable since then.  It was nice.  Since freeing himself from the chains of the Winter Soldier, he’d been lost, not ready to be an Avenger, not ready to rejoin society, not ready to be forgiven or forgive himself.  Suffering with so much guilt and shame and doubt.  But at Natasha and Steve’s, he felt whole.  Certain of himself, like he really could reclaim who he had been before HYDRA had captured him.  _Loved._   James loved him unconditionally.  James didn’t know about the war or HYDRA or the Winter Soldier or any of the million and one terrible things Bucky had been forced to do.  James didn’t know what Bucky had done to his father.  To James, he was just Uncle Bucky.  And Uncle Bucky wrestled.  Uncle Bucky read to him.  Uncle Bucky hugged him when he fell.  Uncle Bucky made Daddy smile and laugh and went with them to play in the backyard.  Uncle Bucky was the best.

Case in point.

Natasha was gone late at the Triskelion.  She’d be home after bedtime, but that left Steve to fend for himself (which, honestly, despite being Captain America and the Man with the Plan and all, he’d never been terribly proficient at doing).  So he’d invited Bucky over, and they’d ordered a ridiculous amount of pizza to split between the two of them and found a couple of bottles of beer and sat down to watch the Dodgers play while James climbed all over both of them on the couch.  After the game ended (with a defeat – typical), they sat James down at the dinette table with his toys and polished off the pizza.  Steve cut up a slice into little squares for James, and he ate, too, content between his father and his uncle.  They talked for a while, debating some of the better (and worse) plays of the game, mentioning some stuff about the Avengers, and it got late.  Then Steve’s phone rang where it was sitting on the table next to his plate.  He frowned.  “It’s Fury,” he said.  “I gotta take this.”  He stood, answering the call and walking swiftly away to the living room to get some privacy.  “Rogers.”

James immediately started to get upset.  He was going through a clingy phase according to Steve.  That morning he’d wailed his head off when his mother had left.  And now he was about to do the same for his father.  His lower lip quivered.  His eyes filled with tears.  Bucky could practically count down until disaster.  _Three… two… one…_   Screaming.

 _Lord._ “What’sa matter?” Bucky asked, like he didn’t know.  James wailed louder, scrambling to get down from his chair and run to Steve.  “No, pal.  Stay here.  Dad’s on the phone.”  That made him cry even more, fat tears tracking their way down his chubby cheeks.  He’d been finger painting on a piece of construction paper after he’d finished dinner.  Natasha didn’t like the mess of that, but Steve of course encouraged it, and she wasn’t home, so she wouldn’t know, right?  Only his red hand print found its way onto the upholstery of the chair.  And onto the table.  It was washable, but this could turn into a disaster real quick.  “Hey, squirt.  Stay put.  Dad’s busy.  And stop screaming, huh?”

“Want Daddy!” James yelled.

“Dad’s busy,” Bucky said again, grasping the squirming toddler and holding him in place.  James responded by fighting harder, twisting around and trying to escape.  He was a strong, wiry little thing, and Bucky had to scooch his chair closer to keep him in hand so he couldn’t bolt straight to his father.  “Come on, pal.  Finish your painting.  He’s gonna be right back.”

“No!” James cried.  “No!  No!”  He was the sweetest, cutest, most affectionate little thing most of the time.  But when he threw a tantrum…  Lord, they were _legendary._   Bucky supposed it was fitting with two of the world’s most stubborn and strong-willed people as his parents, but James could scream loud enough to wake the dead and thrash hard enough to make you doubt your sanity.

Bucky was starting to do just that right now, but he brought out his patient voice.  It surprised everyone they met, but between Steve and him, he’d always been the patient one.  Steve was maybe quieter and more serious, but he was also more impulsive, more given to just _doing_ rather than _thinking_ especially if _doing_ involved doing the right thing.  He could tell already that James had inherited that particularly tedious trait from his father.  “Hey, now.  Stop.  That’s not nice.  I want to see your painting.  Show me what you made.  Please?”  James screamed louder.  It was more like a shriek.  Shrill.  Ear-piercing.  Fury probably heard it.  Steve certainly did because he stuck a hand where Bucky could see it and waved sharply.  Bucky flushed in annoyance.  “Okay, enough of that.  Come on.  Remember what I told you?  You’re Captain America’s kid, and Cap’s kid’s gotta be good because all the other kids in the world look up to you.”  That was drivel.  And James was _way_ too young to be guilted or reasoned into good behavior.  “Come on.  Hush up.  I wanna paint too.  Show me how?”  He grabbed more paper and put it in front of the toddler.  James shoved it away, sending his plate and sippy cup clattering to the floor, and wailed even louder (as if that was possible).  Bucky wrapped his metal arm around him to make him stay, and two huge smears of red pain ended up all over the plating.

Bucky winced.  Keeping his arm clean was enough of a hassle most days.  Getting paint out from between the plates?  Out of the joints?  That would be a serious _pain_.  But James stopped wailing for a second, fairly entranced by how nicely the paint covered the metallic surface.  The miserable keening abruptly quieted, and he watched, wide-eyed and amazed, as his hands left little red hand prints all over his Uncle Bucky’s arm, like he was literally leaving his mark.

Bucky had had a thing with this arm ever since Steve had found him and brought him home after HYDRA had fallen.  He was extremely hesitant to let anyone touch it, even Bruce and Tony when it required maintenance or if they had ideas for upgrades.  Even Steve.  Especially Steve.  It was such a symbol of darkness for him, of bad lies and worse truths, of nightmares and memories and things he’d rather never think about again.  Of what he’d done.  It was a symbol of HYDRA, of the Winter Soldier.

And here James was, obliviously and innocently painting it with glee.

Quietly.

“Alright, kiddo,” he said, pulling James’ little body out of his booster seat and into his lap.  With his flesh and blood hand, he arranged James there, grabbed the little containers of paint, and set his arm on the table in front of James.  “Go to town.  Just do me a solid and stop screaming.”

James delved into blue and those hand prints joined the red ones, gooey and gloppy and _ugh._   It dripped onto Bucky’s pants, and Bucky winced.  “Awesome,” he made himself say.  “Just like your old man, huh?”  James beamed, even though he probably hadn’t understood more than the tone of Bucky’s voice.  He looked back, face red and tear splotched but smiling.  It never ceased to amaze him how this kid could turn on and off the dramatics just like that.  Bucky wiped the tears away with his flesh and blood palm.  “Alright.  It’s fine.  Go on.”

James did.  He spent the next fifteen minutes while Steve was on the phone painting Bucky’s arm.  Red and green and blue and yellow.  Huge splotches of it, mixing together to form a lovely and enticing shade of brown.  Bucky inwardly grimaced through the beginning of it, but James was so intrigued by the squish of the paint between his little fingers and the way he could lather it all over his uncle’s arm that Bucky quickly abandoned his reservations (and irritation) and – _to hell with it_ – joined in.  He gathered some red paint on his index finger and made a star or two, and then he guided James’ fingers in doing the same, praising him all the while for his artistic talents.  Honestly, this was…  It was _fun_.  James’ joy was by far the best thing that had ever come out of his arm.

Neither of them even noticed when Steve came back.  “Thanks for getting him quiet – oh.”  He grimaced at the sight of Bucky’s arm covered in paint.  “Geez, Buck.  Sorry.”

Bucky bounced James on his knee a little, making him giggle.  “It’s alright.  Painting paper’s boring.  Painting cybernetic arms?  Where it’s at.  ’Sides, it looks _much_ better now.  Right?”  He bounced James again, and he squealed.  “Best it’s ever looked.”

Steve didn’t seem convinced, but he smiled, amused if nothing else.  “Come on, Picasso,” he said, coming over to lift James out of Bucky’s lap to get him cleaned up and ready for bed.  James whined and squirmed, latching onto Bucky’s neck in an attempt to stay.

“’S alright,” Bucky said, standing and hoisting James against him on his mostly clean side.  “I got it.”

Steve smiled.  “You sure?”

“Yep.”

“Alright.  I’ll, uh… deal with this.”

Thirty minutes later James was washed, changed into pajamas, and peacefully asleep in his crib.  Bucky came back to the dinette to find it cleaned and Steve in the kitchen, loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher.  Bucky came up beside him, reaching for the sponge and the dish soap.  “Out of the way,” he said, bumping Steve to the side with his hip to get access to the sink.  Some of the paint had come off in during James’ bath, but quite a bit was still caked in the joints and seams of his arm.  He went at it with the sponge, hot water running and soap frothing.  “Washable, my ass.  Gonna take forever to get this out.”

Steve watched him work for a moment.  Then he nudged Bucky playfully back the other way.  “You’re gonna make a great dad someday, Buck.”

Bucky’s heart swelled with the compliment, but he kept it under wraps.  “Nah,” he said.  “This is all the fun and none of the responsibility.”

“Ha.  Sure.”

Bucky grinned.  He was sure.  “Bein’ Uncle Bucky’s the bee’s knees.”


	6. The Cure for the Common Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This one is based on a tumblr prompt from artemishawkeye about Nat getting sick and Steve taking care of her. Hope I do it justice! Enjoy, darlings!

Natasha woke up feeling… not well.  Her throat was raw, so raw in fact that it hurt to swallow.  Her head was pounding, that sort of awful throbbing that shot from the backs of her eyes down to the nerves of her teeth and up to the roots of her hair.  And she was congested.  _Seriously_ congested.  So much that she couldn’t breathe through her nose.  That was strange and probably what had woken her.  Strange and uncomfortable.  And…

She sneezed.  And coughed.

“Nat?” Steve murmured sleepily before rolling over and throwing his arm around her.  They’d been “officially” together (as in she’d managed to admit to him and to everyone else and most importantly to herself that this thing they were doing was in fact _dating_ ) for more than six months now and sleeping together for weeks (in _that_ capacity – honestly, she’d fallen asleep near, beside, and curled up next to Steve Rogers many times before in all sorts of dangerous, unpleasant, and less-than-ideal situations that she was shocked she still found their new intimacy, well, _new_ ).  It was godawful early, so much so that the sun hadn’t even begun to rise.  Steve hadn’t even gotten up for his daily ridiculous up-at-the-crack-of-dawn run.  He was still there, curling around her now like a lead weight.  She didn’t think she could escape.  If she felt like moving, which was doubtful.  “What’sa matter?”

“Nothing,” she rasped.  Lord, was that her voice?  “Go back to sleep.”

He did.  She didn’t because she couldn’t.  She tried, but everything hurt too much.  Last night she’d noticed that she hadn’t felt quite right, plagued by a dull headache and her throat a little dry, but she’d written it off.  Ignored it, because she didn’t get sick.  She never got sick.  _I never get sick._

As her throat tightened with an imminent cough and her head wracked in time with her heart and a chill shook its way up and down her body, she had to – _had to_ – admit the truth.  _No.  No, no, no.  No._

“You’re shivering,” Steve quietly said into her neck.  Maybe he hadn’t gone back to sleep.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”  The cough burst out despite her best efforts, and he stiffened.  He leaned up, reaching over to the nightstand beside the bed and flipping the light on.  Her eyes immediately throbbed with pain, and she laid her forearm over them to block out the obnoxious illumination.  “God, Steeb, turn that off.”

But he didn’t turn it off.  He propped himself on his elbow and looked down on her.  Scrutinizing.  And he was so easy to read that she anticipated the teasing well before he started.  “Who’s Steeb?” he asked with a cheeky grin.  She glared at him over the top of her arm.  She could have hit him.  Wiped that smirk off his face.  She nearly did.  “Are you…  You’re sick.”

“Am not,” she insisted as much to him as to herself and her body that was apparently intent on betraying her.  She rolled over, making a show of putting her back to him, and curled up under the duvet.  That didn’t do much to alleviate the chills, especially losing contact with his heat (and he made _a lot_ of heat).  She hadn’t been sick in _years._   The Red Room serum wasn’t as potent as the super soldier serum by any means, but it did its job in keeping her healthy and fairly immune to disease.  Keyword _fairly._   Obviously somewhere, somehow, she’d encountered a virus that had slipped past her defenses.  _Nope.  Not possible._ “I’b fine.”

Of course he wasn’t convinced.  She could lie about anything to _anyone_ , but she could never lie to him.  He’d seen past it when they’d only been partners and friends.  Now that they were in love?  It was useless trying.  He scooted closer, and his hand curled over her shoulder before rubbing down her arm over the blanket.  “Nat, come on.  It’s not like it’s something to be ashamed of.”

“Says he who can’t get sick.”  Her voice was getting worse by the second, her words slurred and her voice nasal.  The fact that her face was practically muffled in her pillow wasn’t helping.  She sniffled and shivered harder.  The weight on the mattress shifted again.  He grasped her shoulder again and made her roll over to look at him.  He smiled before his warm, large palm settled on her forehead.  “I’b fine,” she declared again, swatting at him.  It was pathetic, given how awful she sounded.  And it didn’t do a thing to ward him away.  Not that she could ward him away.  Or really wanted to, for that matter.

He sighed.  “No, you’re not.  You have a fever.”

“No feber.”

“Take it from someone who’s spent a good chunk of his life sick all the time.  You have a fe _ver_.”

His emphasis on the “v” she couldn’t say earned him another glare, which he didn’t see because he was already pushing the duvet and sheets aside to swing his legs out of bed.  He walked toward the bathroom.  A sudden jolt of _no_ and _don’t leave me_ had her sitting up in bed before she thought better of it.  “Where’re you going?”

“I’ll be right back.  Lay down.”  She didn’t really have much of a choice, because the room started spinning, shadows meshing with the golden lamplight until her head was hitting the pillows in search of relief.  She stayed there, suffering and hating life and her supposedly infallible body and this completely ridiculous turn of events that had _her_ being dropped into infirmity by a virus.  He came back shortly (though it felt like forever), bearing a glass of water, some Tylenol, and a thermometer.  He crouched on her side of the bed.  “Here.  Open up.”

Again she tried to scowl at him because _Black Widow did not get sick._   But as soft as his words were, he was giving her an order.  She knew that tone.  His Captain America tone.  The one he used to direct the Avengers to take down super villains and rescue civilians and apparently to get her to cooperate when she wanted to be nothing but completely intransigent.  Obediently she opened her mouth, and in went the thermometer.  He grinned softly again, brushing the mussed hair off her forehead.  It was hard to stay mad at him when he smiled at her like _that_ , all soft sympathy and tender care and brimming love.  The thermometer beeped.  “102.”

“It’s nothing,” she stubbornly claimed, not willing to accept this despite the mounting evidence.  _Nope._ It didn’t matter if this thing had knocked her down and made her feel like death warmed over.  She wasn’t going to _let it._

“It’s the flu,” he corrected.  “Sit up.”  He handed her the Tylenol, watched over her like mother hen as she swallowed the pills down.  “You’re calling in sick today.”

She finished with the water.  There was no reason in the world that swallowing something so small and innocuous should hurt so much.  “I don’t call in sick,” she seethed.  “I _neber_ call in sick.”

He took the glass and thermometer before drawing the duvet back up over her.  He padded back over to the bathroom.  “Well, you do today,” he called.

She could hear him puttering around in there a moment, the water running and things rustling.  _This is ridiculous.  I’ll sleep a little longer and wake up fine.  I’m not sick.  I’m not sick.  Go back to sleep._   She couldn’t, though.  She still couldn’t get warm, even with the duvet snug around her.  Again, it seemed to take forever, but he came back out of the bathroom and went over to the bedstand.  He turned the lamp off but reached for his phone.  She watched the light of it washing over his face as his thumbs expertly tapped over the touch screen.  “What’re you doing?”

“Letting Fury know you’re not coming in,” he responded.

“No.  I can work.”

Now he glared.  She winced.  Fury didn’t take well to that sort of thing.  In all the years she’d worked for SHIELD, she’d never seen that man take a day off.  She’d never seen him even slightly under the weather, actually.  This was an unknown, something completely unfathomable.  Something that _never happened_.  SHIELD agents powered through disease and injury and exhaustion and life crises.  Being sick was embarrassing and unprofessional and she was Black Widow.  _I don’t get sick!_   He could read her mind.  “Don’t even think about it.  You’re staying in that bed.  And I’m staying with you.”

Apparently it could get worse.  “No, you hab that thing today.  With Tony.”

“I can reschedule it.”

She wasn’t sure what was more embarrassing and disgraceful, him changing his plans or him changing his plans _for her_.  She didn’t like people fawning over her.  Never had.  She abhorred weakness, her own most of all.  “No, Steeb.  I’b not sick enough for you to do that.  Just go.  I’ll be fine.  Captain America’s got better things to do than play nurse maid.”

“It’s not a big deal.  I can do it later.  There’s nothing worse than being alone when you’re sick.”

That was true.  She _had_ been alone the few times in her life when she’d been ill before.  In the grand scheme of awful moments, they weren’t high up there.  She’d been hurt far worse before.  But there was something about it, about not having anyone with you when you weren’t feeling well.  Something really miserable.

Still, she was not going to stand for him hanging around and worrying and waiting on her all day.  Nothing had ever brought her down.  Not the Red Room or her dark past or Loki or the dozens of awful villains the Avengers had stopped.  Not any of the injuries she’d received in the line of duty.  She’d fought through all of that.  She could fight through this, viral plague or not.  _By herself._   “Go do what you neeb to.  I’b fine.”  He stared at her doubtfully.  “Seriously, Rogers.”

“I wouldn’t be a very good boyfriend if I left you here like this,” he argued.

He was joking, and she knew it, but she didn’t like it.  They were _together,_ but she didn’t like that term.  Or girlfriend.  Or the implication that she _needed_ him.  “Go.  I’ll be fine.”

He realized she was serious.  Absolutely serious.  He sighed, sitting on the bed.  His hand was back, smoothing her hair away.  “If you’re sure–”

“I’b sure,” she said again.  She grabbed his hand and kissed it to convince him, only that ended up as a wet cough, and she grimaced.  “Sorry.”

“S’ok,” he said, wiping his hand on a tissue he grabbed from the box on her nightstand.  He smiled disarmingly.  “I can stay for a little while at least.  How’s that sound?”

“Peachy keen,” she grumbled.  And sneezed.  And coughed.  He handed her the box of tissues and got back into bed.

Two hours later filled with fitful sleeping and him holding her and whispering comfort into her ear (she would _never_ admit how much she liked that), he was showered and dressed and kissing her goodbye.  As much as she hadn’t wanted him falling all over himself to take care of her and pamper her and make her feel better, about thirty minutes into his departure, she woke up from another uneasy slumber and promptly wished he was there to take care of her and pamper her and make her feel better because honestly?  She felt _awful._   It had been bad a few hours ago.  Now it was even worse.  She could hardly breathe she was so stuffed up.  Her head was nothing more than a pounding, agony-riddled lump barely supported by her knotted neck.  Swallowing was unmitigated torture.  She had aches and chills and couldn’t stop coughing.  And she couldn’t get warm no matter what she did.

She didn’t know what the heck she’d been thinking.  It had taken so much convincing to get Steve to actually leave her, and now she was regretting it more than she’d ever regretted _anything_ (and that was saying a lot.  And probably overly dramatic, but she was sick and she could whine if she wanted to).  Still, what was done was done, and she wasn’t about to call him and admit that she was wrong, let alone that she _needed him._   So she dragged herself out of Steve’s bedroom to his living room.  Wrapped up in his duvet, she groaned and moaned her way to the couch where she promptly collapsed.  Then the sneezing and coughing and nasal dripping began in earnest, and she ended up plodding wearily back to his bedroom to get the tissues then back again to the couch.  She cocooned herself in the duvet as well as a quilt there (one of her favorites – more than anything in his apartment, it smelled like him for some reason.  It was the one they used when they cuddled on the sofa while they watched a movie together or caught up with each other’s days or kissed or… _I shouldn’t be thinking about that when I’m like this_ ).  She just knew it was the closest thing she had to _him_ right now, so she clutched it tight and buried her face in it and shivered and wondered what in the world she’d been thinking.

 _I want Steve._   She really did.  He said she could call.  _So call him._   But that wasn’t very Black Widow-like.  _I don’t need help.  I can handle this._   But, ugh, it was terrible.  “I want Steeb,” she moaned to herself, because no one could hear, so it was okay.

She tried to sleep again.  Tried and failed.  So she turned the television on.  She hadn’t been home during the day like this with nothing to do in so long she’d completely forgotten there was such a thing as daytime television.  It was shallow and silly, game shows and talk shows and soap operas, but mind-numbing enough to be somewhat distracting.  She thought she could maybe doze, but she couldn’t get comfortable given her aches and chills, and so she stared bleary-eyed and listless at the TV for hours and tried not to count down the seconds until Steve walked through the front door.  She’d rather forgotten the strange relationship you developed with time when you were sick.  It was weird and a little unsettling, how minutes were stretched and distorted by the unpleasantness of it all, but then the next thing she knew, lazy afternoon shadows were drifting across the apartment and she couldn’t remember what she’d spent all day doing.  Somewhere in that feverish haze she thought she had actually slept a while.  She knew she was beyond hungry and really thirsty, and she had to go to the bathroom, but the thought of getting up was really unappealing.  Therefore she lay there, watching whatever movie was on TV – some confusing science fiction thing – until it became a downright crisis, and then she went clumsily to the restroom.  On her way back to the couch of her own personal hell she considered eating.  But she changed her mind because it was too much work and she didn’t think she could stomach it, so instead she got some more water and collapsed again, silently hating the world.

She dozed again.  Her phone rang, putting a sharp end to that small and short-lived blessing.  Angrily she flung her arm out from her little nest of meager warmth and smashed the coffee table, nearly spilling her glass of water as she fumbled for her phone.  It took some effort to grab it, to bring it to her ear, and to moisten her mouth enough to speak.  “’Lo?”

“Well, you sound like the living dead,” Tony Stark chimed in a despicably upbeat voice.  “When Spangles told me you were sick, I told him it was impossible for the mighty Black Widow to be undone by something so simple as the common cold.  I guess I officially stand corrected.”

 _Ugh.  Not this._   “What do you want, Stark?”

She must have sounded as murderously irate as she felt, despite her gravelly voice.  “Whoa, Red.  I’m just the messenger.  Your Patriotic Paragon of Perfection wanted me to call you and tell you he’s on his way, but he’s stopping to get you some cold medicine.  Should be there in about thirty.  He’s dropping me off at the airport right now.”  There was a muffled voice in the background.  Natasha recognized it as Steve’s.  She could practically hear the concern oozing from his tone.  “He wants to know if you’re okay.”

That was annoying.  “Of course I’b okay,” she practically snapped.

“Did you hear what I just said?  Messenger.  Don’t shoot me.  You get even snippier when you’re sick.  Anyway, feel better.”  That sounded heartfelt.  Well, heartfelt for Stark.  “Bye.”

She disconnected the call, tossed her phone back to the table with a huff, and burrowed back into her nest and waited, trying not to embrace just how completely relieved she was that _Steve was coming_.

Exactly thirty minutes later, she heard the rattle of keys in the lock of the front door.  It creaked open and familiar footfalls came inside.  She barely made any effort to open her eyes.  “Nat?”  Answering was too much work as well.  And her throat hurt too much to talk.  She’d wait until he got closer, which he did in short order, bearing a bag from the local grocer.  At seeing her balled up on the couch as she was and buried in blankets, he grimaced.  “Hey, how are you feeling?”

“Howzzit look like I’b feeling?”

“Wonderful,” he said, cheeky again and with sarcasm of which she’d used to think him incapable.  “I brought you cough syrup.  And menthol rub.  More painkillers.  And this multi-symptom cold relief stuff.  The pharmacist recommended it.”  He seemed pretty proud of his acquisitions, pulling them out of the bag and lining up the bottles and pills in front of her.  “Tissues.  Cough drops.  And…”  He produced a clear, plastic container out of the bag and smiled.  “Chicken noodle soup.”

For some reason, she wanted to be annoyed.  Really, she did.  Considering how miserable she felt, she thought she should be because he’d left her to suffer by herself all day (never mind that she’d convinced him to!  He should have known better and seen through her virus-induced multiple personality disorder and just _known_ she’d really wanted him despite her insistences that _she didn’t_ ).  “Crackers?” she finally rasped.

“Got ’em,” he promised.  He stepped around the coffee table to the couch and dropped a light kiss on her head.  “Have you been drinking?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Enough.”  Lies, all of it.  Probably.

He saw through that, looking unconvinced and unhappy.  “Let me get this ready for you.”  He took the soup and some of the medicine and disappeared into the kitchen.  He was back not long after that, bearing a steaming bowl and a glass of Gatorade.  “Sit up?”

She managed, though not too gracefully.  He waited until she was more or less upright and more or less comfortable.  He handed her the bowl, a napkin, and a couple of packets of saltine crackers.  “Thanks,” she whispered.  He nodded and sat next to her on the couch, arranging the quilt around her shoulders to keep her warm.  At first she didn’t think she could eat again, feeling like she had no appetite.  But the warm tendrils of steam slipped inside her with every breath, loosening her airways, and the rich smell of the soup stoked to life her hunger.  He crumbled up her crackers for her and added them.  “Thanks.”

“Drink all of that.”  He tenderly laid his hand on her forehead.  “No fever at least,” he quietly announced, brushing the backs of his fingers down her cheek.  “That’s good.”

She nodded, spooning more soup into her mouth.  “No.  This is good.”

“Slaved away all day on it,” he quipped.

She managed a bit of a withering glare for him, and he smiled and carefully put an arm around her shoulders.  She ate in silence for a bit, a comfortable one.  Before she knew it, most of her bowl was empty and she felt infinitely better for having something warm in her stomach.  “There’s nothing to be ashamed about, you know,” he finally said as he took her empty bowl and set it on the table.  “Like I said before, I was sick a lot when I was a kid.  I know what it’s like.”

She reached for the bag of cough drops and took one up, unwrapping it with achy, shaking fingers.  She popped it in her mouth, hoping to stem the paroxysm of harsh coughs she felt building in her throat.  Sucking on it seemed to keep it at bay.  Steve was staring at her, the corner of his mouth turned upward in a knowing smile.  He always had that smile for her.  She’d fallen in love with that smile, the one he had when he was gently, carefully peeling away her defenses.  “I don’t like being sick,” she groused.

“I know, babe.”

“Don’t like being…”  _Weak.  Vulnerable.  Useless.  Incapable._  “…like this.”

“You can trust me to take care of you, you know.  It’s alright.”  She gave up with this nonsense and sagged into him, feeling silly and stupid.  He was warm and solid, and she snuggled up into his side.  “It’s not just about being sick.  It’s about being a burden.  I always hated that the most.  Being a burden.”  She looked up at him.  He still had that smile.  “My mother always used to tell me you can’t ever be a burden to someone who loves you, no matter how terrible you look or feel.  So there’s no sense in feeling bad about it.”  He shook his head in gentle admonishment.  “Or pretending you don’t need help.”

“You think I look terrible?”  Lord, if that didn’t sound positively pathetic.

He chuckled.  “You got a red nose,” he teased.  “And it’s running to beat the band.”  He handed her a tissue, and she blushed, wiping her face.  “And your hair’s kinda stickin’ up–”

 _“Rogers,”_ she growled in warning.

“You’re beautiful, Nat.  I don’t think there’s anything in this world that could make you be anything else.”

He could be such a sap, a sweet sap but a sap nonetheless.  The many ways he told her he loved her while respecting her so much to never make her feel uncomfortable or insecure about it.  He was so gentlemanly and chivalrous, like a picture from a different era (not that that was much a stretch).  There’d been a time when it had bothered her, him and his morals and polite sensibilities and naïve mindsets.  They were opposites in so many ways, but similar in every way that mattered.  Stubborn.  Smart.  Strong.  And it had been pretty ridiculous to think that being _sick_ of all things would make her less than who she was.  “Would you kiss me?”

Steve swept his thumb across her cheek.  “Well, you do have cough drop breath.  And the plague.”

“You can’t get sick, though,” she reminded him.  “Small perk.  I can cough and cling on you all I want.  No chance of infection.”

“Spose that’s true,” he conceded.  That smile.  He thought she was beautiful?  _He_ was beautiful.  “Of course I can kiss you.”  He did, just like he said he would.  “And if I could I’d get sick with you a hundred times over if it’d make you feel better.”  She was really about to call him out on his sappiness this time, but he kissed her again before she could.  And that was okay.  She was okay with all of it.

The rest of the evening went by.  She dozed on the couch while he worked.  She heard him on the phone with Tony and Fury.  She saw him sitting on the loveseat, typing away at his laptop, probably completing mission reports or whatever else he needed to do for SHIELD.  She drifted, contented with him there even though she still ached and shivered.  Sometime later he came back, drawing her from a light doze.  “Bed?” he asked.  “Or you want a hot shower?”

“Both?”

He laughed.  “Sure, love.”  In an act that she would have despised at any other time, he lifted her slight form off the couch and into his arms.  She curled her arms around his neck and let him carry her, closing her eyes and holding on tight.  They went through his bedroom into the bathroom.  He set her on the side of the tub while he started the shower.  “Want my help?”

“You trying to get some?  Gross.”

He laughed again.  She liked the sound of it as he went back outside.  She undressed, wincing with the dull, throbbing misery assailing her limbs.  The minute even the warm, humid air struck her bare skin, she shivered even more, gooseflesh prickling into thousands of little dots all over her.  They were immediately soothed by the hot spray of the shower.  She lingered there what felt like a really long time, breathing deeply of the steam, comforted by the pounding massage of the water, basking in the heat that finally seeped through her flesh and into her bones.  When she was finally done, she emerged to find her clothes already laid out for her on the vanity, as well as a towel and a cup of cough syrup, another cup of water, and some other pills.  She dried off, brushed her hair, dressed, downed the medication, and emerged from the bathroom to stagger toward his bed.

He was waiting for her.  “C’mere,” he said, wrapping her in his arms.  His hands were huge, strong, powerful on her back, pressing gently and soothing away the remainder of her pain.  He helped her into bed, tucking her in.  He unscrewed the cap of the menthol rub.  She wrinkled her nose at the smell.  “Trust me.  It helps.”  She acquiesced, deciding if he was willing to breathe it on her all night, then she could be, too.  His fingers were gentle, capable, as he rubbed the menthol into her chest.  Then he was off, washing up, brushing his teeth, locking up, and flipping off lights.  He climbed into bed beside her.  “Still shivering?”  She was, but it was okay because he immediately gathered her into his arms.  She sighed and fell completely onto his chest.  He pulled the duvet he’d returned from the couch over them both, sealing in the heat and out the cold.  His hands rubbed up and down her arms, rubbing away the chill.  She relaxed in short order, and her eyes grew heavy again.  He kissed the crown of her head as she tucked it under his chin.  “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“I feel better now,” she whispered into his neck.

“Do you?”  His lips pressed down into her hair again.  “Good.”

“Cure for the common cold,” she murmured sleepily.

“What is?”

She smiled and closed her eyes.  “Having Captain America for a boyfriend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [lbs29](http://lbs29.tumblr.com) for this awesome artwork inspired by this chapter!
> 
> I'd entire the worst cold imaginable if I got to have Steve Rogers take care of me...


	7. That's How It Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This is based on a prompt from ice326 for a first date after James' birth. Enjoy!

They were going out together for the first time since James was born.  For the first time in almost _four months_.  And it was strange, or at least it seemed that way to Steve, because they’d never been much for dates before.  They’d been on their fair share, but it wasn’t always easy (or comfortable) to enjoy time out doing mundane things like dinner and a movie or even a walk in the park when you were as publically well-known as Captain America and Black Widow.  Surprisingly (or maybe not, when he really thought about), Natasha was something of a home-body.  She spent so much of her time traveling for SHIELD, on missions and operations all over the globe, that on the rare occasion they had down periods, she didn’t want to spend them going and doing.  Most of their “dates” before they’d gotten married (when they hadn’t been fighting side by side with the STRIKE Team or with the Avengers) had been at his place or at Stark Tower, cuddled in front of a movie or down in the gym working out or with him making dinner and her teasing him, a glass of wine in her hand.  Surprisingly (or definitely not, when he really thought about it), early on their courtship he realized that he wasn’t much into going out, either.   They weren’t “dinner and a movie” people.  They liked privacy and quiet, given the nature of what they did.

However, after four months of nothing but privacy and quiet, they were both worn down and in need of a moment away.  It was funny how having a baby condensed your world down to the essentials of life.  Bottles.  Diapers.  Counting wet ones and dirty ones.  Sleeping and not sleeping (mostly not sleeping).  The experience was amazing so far.  And terrifying and frustrating and wonderful and completely _consuming_.  It was worse for Natasha than Steve.  She’d taken time off for James (she refused to call it maternity leave), so she was home with him all day.  Steve had him at night (since he needed less sleep, though getting no sleep was not quite what he’d had in mind when he’d offered).  He’d insisted to Fury right after James had been born that he not be given any missions that required traveling, still smarting from almost missing his son’s arrival in the world.  So he’d been more or less relegated to the command center at the Triskelion, overseeing other agents’ operations.  And the few times the Avengers had assembled, he’d gone, of course, but she hadn’t.  She’d lived and breathed nothing but _baby_.  And she needed a break.

Pepper had been the one to notice and insist Steve take her out.  There’d been the obligatory fretting over that (Natasha also refused to call that what it was, but that was what it was – fretting).  What if James cried.  What if he needed her.  What if he got sick or something happened or…  She wasn’t tired.  She didn’t need to go anywhere.  This was how it was.  She was a new mother, and her baby needed her.

But Pepper was as stubborn as any of them, and she kept assuring her that it would be okay, that she and Tony could handle it for an evening (Tony grumbling and whining the whole time, of course).  Natasha had still been hesitant, but Steve had finally convinced her.  His reasons were not entirely altruistic.  He’d read that in a baby’s first few months, a father often felt “relegated”, displaced by the new person in the mother’s life who was taking all her time and attention.  _Neglected._ He’d thought that was pretty ridiculous; who could possibly have time to be feeling something that dumb (and selfish) with a new baby to love?  But, after four months of barely having a moment of Natasha’s time (and when he did, either one or both of them was too exhausted for anything more than a quick kiss), he had to admit that what he’d read was true.  He wanted a night alone with her.  He loved James to death, more than he thought he could ever possibly love anyone.  But he wanted his wife for _one_ evening.

So, with him coaxing and her trying to find excuses, off they’d gone.

Now they were at a nice Italian restaurant in DC at a table for two.  They were outside on the patio, and the September evening was still warm and pleasant with the last heat of summer.  Steve ordered a bottle of wine and was looking over the menu.  “What are you going to have?”

“Do you think he’s okay?”

The question was soft, rushed.  Not like she was embarrassed to be asking but because she was genuinely worried.  Natasha was _never_ worried.  Through everything they’d gone through together, all the battles and dangerous moments where their lives and the lives of those about whom they cared had been in the balance, and she had never been anything but calm and completely in control.  Steve looked over the top of his menu and saw her worrying her lower lip with her teeth and _fidgeting_.  “Of course he’s okay,” he said.  He glanced at his watch.  “He’s probably sleeping already.”

“He’s been fussy about going to sleep a lot recently,” Natasha said.  She was one hundred percent serious.  And she looked tired.  Beautiful and stunning and powerful.  But _very_ tired.  “He’s very particular about how you do things.”

“He doesn’t get that trait from me,” Steve said with a sly smile.  She positively glared at him.  Okay, teasing was out.  “If you’re worried, you should call.”

“I’m not worried.”  She made a pointed effort to study her menu.

Steve watched her, not believing for one second that she was being honest with him (or herself).  He slid his hand across the table over the tablecloth, reaching for hers.  He rubbed a finger over her knuckles until she inched a little closer and let him wrap their hands together.  “Hey, Pepper knows what she’s doing.  It’s alright.  You’re allowed to leave him.  We should try to enjoy this.”

“We’ve been to dinner before,” she said, smiling a little, obviously not certain.

“This one’s special.”  He leaned over the table to lift her knuckles to his lips.  “Your first night away.”

“ _Our_ first night,” she corrected.

He grinned.  “Yeah, but it’s a bigger deal for you.  I’ve been out.”

“To work,” she clarified.

“It’s still out.”

“Are you really going to argue about who has it worse?” she baited with a smile.  “It’s not worth the effort.  You know I always win.  And I’m always right.”  It wasn’t quite her normal level of sass and confidence.  He could see that immediately.  Still, she was amazing, flawlessly incredible, so much of who she was while becoming someone completely new.  Who would have ever thought that Black Widow would take so well to motherhood?  Well, Steve had, even as Natasha had doubted and struggled with the concept of it.  Steve had been sure.  And _he’d_ been right that time.  She was positively devoted to James, and patient, more patient than he’d ever imagined she could be.  He’d had faith in her, and in them both, but how smoothly everything had gone had surprised even him.

He wondered if she knew that.  There hadn’t been much time over the last few months to tell her.  So he raised his glass of wine, wishing he’d thought to buy her flowers or something.  Natasha typically put up a front that she didn’t enjoy the trivial pleasantries couples did for each other, but he knew she secretly did when the moment was right.  Still, this had happened so suddenly (Tony and Pepper had come over for dinner only to find Natasha and Steve worn and bleary-eyed and in desperate need of a break) that he really hadn’t had the foresight.  “Well, here’s to an evening out,” he said, “with my beautiful wife, who still takes my breath away.  And the mother of my son.  He has no idea how lucky he is to have you.”

She tried to be flippant but failed with a quivering smile and tears glistening in her eyes.  “You’re so sweet,” she said, “but sappy.”  She clinked their glasses together.  After taking a drink, she turned back to her menu.  “You know what he did today?”

Steve was about to remind her that this was supposed to be for them, but there was such light in her eyes and pride and excitement in her voice that he couldn’t bring himself to do it.  “What?” he asked with a smile.

She proceeded to regale him with a tale about how James had rolled from his back to his tummy.  He’d been doing the opposite for a couple of weeks now, and she’d left him on his little play mat while she’d taken a call from Hill and had completely failed to listen to anything the Deputy Director had said because she’d been so excited with the baby’s accomplishments.  And then she went on to tell Steve about James’ _other_ accomplishments, about how he spit up all over Clint when he’d stopped by around lunchtime (she seemed more than slightly pleased with that – it was evil, but, then, she’d always had a little bit of an evil side to her).  _And_ she told him how James’ diaper had failed when she’d taken him on a walk and how she’d ended up bringing him to the store when they’d run out of diaper wipes and how Steve needed to lower the crib mattress and put together some of his toys and it went on and on.  Steve gave up trying to steer the conversation away from their son to matters at SHIELD or even _gossip_ at SHIELD (Natasha liked gossip and liked knowing what was going on.  Normally).  He gave up and just joined her and accepted that this was how it was: you finally get a break, a moment away from the craziness of parenthood, and you spent it talking about your kids.  And worrying about them.  And thinking about them.  And _missing_ them.  It was like the introduction of a child in one’s life rewired one’s brain.  Permanently.

Before he knew it, dinner was over.  Delicious, but gone.  And tiramisu was being shared over coffee, and Natasha was still talking about James.  Steve just smiled and let her go.  While he paid the bill, she finally caved in and fished her cell phone out of her purse to call home.  Pepper answered and quietly informed her that James was fine.  He was fast asleep.  She and Steve should feel free to stay out as late as they wanted.

Well, as late as they wanted ended up not being much longer.  They went for a little stroll through town, her arm in his.  It was always a risk, doing something like this, but thankfully no one noticed them.  And, as much as they wanted to enjoy the pleasant weather and each other’s company, they were both exhausted.  So back home they went.

Natasha thanked Pepper and Tony, of course, but she made a beeline for James’ room as fast as she could.  Tony rolled his eyes.  “Did she enjoy herself at least?”

“Yeah,” Steve assured.  “You know how it is.”  They didn’t really.  None of them had any idea how it was, Steve included.  He was learning everyday what it meant to be a husband and a father.  He knew he would never stop.  He never wanted to.  “Thanks, guys.  We really appreciated it.”

“Of course,” Pepper said, sweeping him into a tender embrace.  “He was a little angel.  No trouble at all.”

When they were gone, Steve took off his coat and headed upstairs to James’ room.  Surprisingly, Natasha wasn’t there, though she obviously had been.  James’ blankets were newly and carefully wrapped around his little body.  He was breathing slowly, deeply slumbering.  Steve smiled and closed the door before walking quietly down the hallway toward their bedroom.

Natasha was sitting on their bed.  Now the exhaustion she’d been hiding all evening was fully on display, her posture slumped and her eyes heavy.  She was taking her earrings off, setting them to the nightstand.  Steve dimmed the lights and came closer, shedding his shoes and his tie.  Then he went down onto his knees and pushed his way up to her.  “You really do, you know,” he whispered.  He swept her hair away from the nape of her neck, kissing along her skin and reaching to undo the clasp of her necklace.

“I really do what?”

“Take my breath away.”  That seemed to take hers, because she moaned and leaned into his touch and lips.  “Everybody always thinks I’m the strong one, but I’m not.  It’s you.  Giving so much of yourself to someone else…  To me.  To him.  James _really_ has no idea how idea how lucky he is.”

“Steve…”

“I don’t have any idea, either.”  He guided her down onto the bed.  Lord, he’d missed this.  The feel of her skin.  The smell of her hair.  The taste of her lips.  She melted beneath him as he guided her onto her front, finding the tiny zipper of her dress with alacrity that idly surprised him given how tired he was.  He pulled it down.  “But you remind me every day,” he murmured as he parted the fabric and exposed the smooth expanse of her back.  He spent a long moment studying and exploring and worshipping what he’d revealed.  “Still… it’s been a while since I’ve had _that_ kind of a reminder.”

“Yeah, it has been,” she said around a gasp as he slid his hands under her belly.

“You know what the perfect ending to this date would be?”

“Not procreation.  I can hardly handle the first one.”

He chuckled before kissing his way down from her nape to her spine, following its elegant dip toward her waist.  Just as he was about to reach for the clasp of her bra…

James cried.

Steve froze.  It was just one cry.  He could go back to sleep.

No such luck.

Below him Natasha groaned in equal parts frustration, exhaustion, and disappointment.  “No, love.  I got it.  Don’t move.”  He pushed himself up off the bed and gathered his composure before going back to James’ room, wondering if he was ever going to (ugh, he couldn’t believe he was thinking about it this way) _get any ever again_.

It didn’t take long to get James settled back to sleep.  Steve adjusted his blanket, found his pacifier in his crib, and rubbed his belly in soothing circles until he calmed.  He padded back to their bedroom to find that his chances of getting any had just gone down from possible to nothing.

Natasha had passed out where he left her.  She literally hadn’t moved.  Her back was rising and falling with deep breaths, her lips slightly parted where she’d turned her face to the side.  He groaned and shook his head in amusement.  It took a little bit of work to get her out of her shoes, her dress, and her stockings without disturbing her.  He found one of her nightgowns and somehow managed to get her in it.  Then he tucked her into bed, undressed himself, and collapsed beside her.  _This is how it is._

He gathered her against him and kissed her forehead.  He wouldn’t want it any other way.


	8. Home Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This ended up angstier than I planned. And it's sort of a precursor to a prompt coming up in a few chapters. Enjoy!

Steve was late.  _Really_ late.

And Natasha was beyond worried.

Captain America, Iron Man, and Hawkeye had gone off yesterday to take out a group of arms dealers in the remote regions of eastern China.  It hadn’t seemed like a mission that would require the full strength of the team.  In fact, it hadn’t seemed like a serious situation at all.  Just an operation like any other, like any of the dozens and dozens Steve had led before.  She hadn’t even thought much of it, going about her day today and yesterday like normal.  Dropping James at preschool.  Heading off to the new Avengers facility to help SHIELD in its mission to protect the world.  Writing reports and helping with training and monitoring operations around the world.  Picking James up on her way home.  Steve was supposed to be back this afternoon.  She’d been busy around the house, so she didn’t even notice when he was a few minutes late.  Then an hour.  Then _two_.

That was when she’d started getting concerned.  She’d called Steve’s cellphone, but it had gone straight to voicemail.  It wasn’t unusual.  He often forgot to turn his phone back on after a mission.  But Clint’s and Tony’s had, too, and that was, in a word, disturbing.  So she’d contacted HQ and tried to get in touch with Hill.  The mere fact that she couldn’t, that Hill was predisposed with “urgent matters”, had ratcheted her anxiety right up into the early levels of panic.  And that had only gotten worse when she’d learned through ancillary channels that the Avengers had encountered resistance in the form of enhanced individuals during the course of their mission. SHIELD was sending in reinforcements.  Nobody knew what was happening, but whatever it was, it was bad.  Suddenly this simple mission had taken a definite turn for the dangerous, and she was thousands of miles away and unable to do a thing.  _Helpless._

She hated that.  She hated how frustrated it made her, the fact that her husband and a man she loved like her brother and one of her closest friends were in trouble and she could only _wait._   This had been her life for the last few years since finding out she was pregnant, staying behind and watching from the sidelines.  It wasn’t easy.  She’d gone out on her fair share of missions herself since James’ birth and likely left Steve in the same predicament with nothing to do but hope, worry, wait, and try to act normally.  This was simply what their lives were now.  In the last four years, however, she’d _never_ had cause to worry like this.  Of course, she wasn’t overt about it; she was Black Widow, but even more than that, she was James’ mother.  James didn’t know what his parents did for a living.  He was a three year old, an extremely smart and inquisitive three year old, but he didn’t know that his father had gone to fight evil and prevent men with dark ambitions from hurting innocent people and threatening world peace.  He didn’t understand what that meant, what that _could mean_.  He would only understand that his father was gone and that his mother was frightened.  So she could _never_ be frightened in front of him, even when she was.

And she was.  “Where’s Daddy?” James asked for what felt like this hundredth time since Steve had failed to show up after lunch.  Steve had promised to take him to the park, so in James’ innocent mind, Daddy was really, really late for their fun afternoon together.  “Mama, where’s Daddy?”

“He’s coming,” Natasha said again, trying to keep herself busy with getting his dinner ready.  She probably should have made something for herself, too, but her stomach was roiling too much to think about eating.  “He’ll be here soon.”

“What about the park?” he whined.

It was already dark outside.  “I don’t think it’ll be today.”  She could see him pouting, battling tears.  She didn’t think she could take him getting upset right then, let alone a tantrum.  Not when every nerve in her body was tingling with worry.  Not when she was raw and losing her own composure.  “Listen,” she said quickly, bringing his sandwich and sippy cup over.  She set those in front of him and swept her hand over his soft hair.  “Listen, baby.  Why don’t you eat, and then we’ll do bath time, and then we’ll sit down and watch a movie together, okay?”

“Can I stay up for Daddy?”

Normally she wouldn’t agree to that.  This time it was impossible to turn him down.  “Sure.  I’m sure he’ll want to see you when he gets here.”

James was excited by the prospect of staying up past ( _way_ past) his bedtime.  Going to sleep had turned into something of a battle of late.  He nodded enthusiastically, the park all but forgotten, and started in on his sandwich.  Across the kitchen on the island, Natasha’s phone rang.  She jerked in surprise and bolted over to it with uncharacteristic clumsiness.  _Please let it be him.  Please.  Please._   It was Sam.  Her stomach knotted in equal parts disappointment and hope.  “Hello?”

“Natasha, hi.  It’s Sam.”  He sounded as shaken as she felt.  “Just checking in.  Have you heard anything?”

She fought to hang onto her composure, pressing the back of her hand to her brow.  She was better than this.  She shouldn’t be so weak and easily rattled.  “No.  Have you?”

“No.  I keep trying to call, but no one at SHIELD is answering.  It’s some BS tap dance.  I don’t know.”  He sighed in frustration.  “I should’ve gone with them.  I offered, but Barton said they could handle it.  I should’ve gone anyway.”

“Sam, it’s alright.  I’m sure they’re fine.”  She wasn’t sure.  She wasn’t sure at all.  And the Black Widow of a few years ago would never have spouted off placating nonsense like that.  Truth be told, if there was something in China that was capable of taking down three Avengers, Sam being there probably wouldn’t have made much difference

Sam heard what she didn’t say.  “Is James okay?  Do you want me to come over?”  He was obviously worried out of his mind.  She’d never heard him quite like this.

Natasha sighed slowly, watching her son watch her, his sandwich nibbled and forgotten.  “He’s fine.  We’re both fine.  You don’t need to come.”

“You sure?”  Sam was frantic to be of some use.  It was more than obvious.  He was so good to Steve, so loyal to him, that his guilt and devotion would allow nothing else.  If keeping Steve’s family company while they waited for some information was all he could, he’d do it gladly.

But it was alright.  “We’re fine,” she assured again.  “Just call if you hear anything.”

“Likewise.”

She hung up with him.  James was still watching her with those huge blue eyes of his, wondering and uncertain.  She couldn’t let him see her be this upset.  So she gathered her composure, managed a smile for him, and came over again.  She tickled him.  “Ready for a bath?”  He nodded, but he still looked like he wanted to cry.  He threw his arms around her neck.  “Daddy’ll be home soon.  I promise, baby.  I promise.”  She lifted him out of his booster seat and rested him on her hip.  “Ready?” she said with the brightest smile she could.

He nodded again, thankfully comforted, and she carried him upstairs.  She did her absolute best to be completely involved with him, blowing his tummy while he squealed, splashing him, playing little superheroes in the tub and doing all the things he liked so much.  But it was hard with her anxiety so present in her mind, a thorn digging deeper and deeper into her.  She’d been worried for Steve before, of course.  He was awfully proficient at getting himself hurt; the way he fought, using his body as much as a shield as he did with his _actual_ shield, meant he took a lot of hard hits.  And he threw himself in the line of fire all the time.  When he’d nearly died at the hands of the Winter Soldier, she’d been the most terrified she could ever recall being (and that was saying something).  So much of their lives had calmed down since then.  Steve hadn’t been severely hurt or in serious danger since SHIELD had been overrun by HYDRA, and she’d forgotten what it felt like.  The helpless fear.  The gut-clenching worry.  The inability to focus on anything else.

“Mama, I’m dry.”

James’ little voice broke through her reverie, and she realized she had been rubbing the towel over his body for quite a while.  “Sorry, baby,” she said softly, setting the towel aside and reaching for his pajamas.  Dressed and warm, she wrapped him up in his favorite blanket and took him back downstairs.  Together they sat on the couch in front of the TV, him on her lap, both of them snuggled under the quilt and with each other.  She turned on _Cars_ , and he watched.  She didn’t.  She kept glancing at the door.  Glancing at her phone the couch beside her.  Glancing at the clock.  Nine o’clock.  Ten o’clock.  The movie ended, and James had fallen fast asleep.  She couldn’t think about moving him even though it wasn’t entirely comfortable with him across her lap and cradled in her arms.  _Eleven_ o’clock.

_Steve, where are you…_

Her phone vibrated beside her, shattering the thick silence.  Even though she’d been waiting and waiting, it still took her by surprise.  Her heart pounded, straining against her sternum.  Frantically she snatched it with her free hand and checked the caller ID.  Not Steve.  She wanted to cry.  “Hello?”

“They’re back,” Bucky said.  Natasha could have melted her relief was so powerful.  “I just heard from Hill.  They’re debriefing.”

“Is he okay?”  If Steve was debriefing, he had to be okay.  Right?

Bucky’s voice was thick with worry and anger.  “I don’t know.  I’m coming over.”  He hung up before she could argue.  She wanted to.  She was already feeling helpless and useless, and she didn’t need Steve’s friends to look after her.  She didn’t _want_ the help, either, but it was too late.  That was the difference between Bucky and Sam.  While they were both absolutely loyal to Steve, carrying him through thick and thin, Sam was more hesitant to come barging into their lives uninvited.  Bucky, on the other hand…  There was nothing in the world that would keep Bucky Barnes from Steve Rogers if he thought Steve needed him.

Or if she needed him.  Natasha could only delude herself so much.  She did feel better knowing he was coming.

It took about thirty minutes for someone to quietly knock on the front door.  Natasha settled James onto the couch to open it, praying for a moment it was Steve and not Bucky.  It was Bucky.  Of course.  She tried to smile.

He came inside, closing the front door behind him.  He seemed rattled, as rattled and riled as she felt.  She could see he was scared, that he, like her, just wanted Steve _there._ Whatever shape he was in, they could deal with it as long as he was home safe.  He gently grasped her arm.  “You okay?”

She nodded, but it was a lie.  They were silent a moment.  “I forgot how hard this was.”

“Me, too.”  He moved away, spotting James asleep on the couch.  “Want me to carry him to bed?”

Before she could even answer, there was the sound of a car pulling up in the driveway.  They both went still, not daring to trust what they’d heard.  Then the car door quietly opened and closed, and heavy footsteps thudded up to the front door.  Keys jingled and rattled into the lock.  A breath later, the door opened again, and _he was home._

Natasha stared at him, memorizing anew what he looked like even though she’d just seen him two days ago.  He had on the same jeans and polo shirt he’d been wearing when he’d left, only now they were rumpled and dirty.  His shield was slung over his shoulder.  He was filthy, his face streaked with ash and soot.  He looked exhausted.  When she met his gaze, those brightly blue eyes that never failed to make her feel _safe_ …  He smiled.  “Hi.”

She didn’t care that Bucky was in the way.  She strode across their front entryway in two huge steps and threw herself at him.  He staggered a little (which more than anything told her he _was_ hurt underneath his clothes – she’d worry about that later) before wrapping his arms around her.  “Sorry I’m late,” he murmured into her hair.  “Things got real messy.”

“No kidding,” Bucky said, torn between being displeased and positively crushed by relief that Steve was back.

Natasha couldn’t make herself let him go, closing her eyes and breathing deeply of him even though he smelled like sweat and fire.  She relished in the moment, in _him_ , the way he felt in her arms.  Strength and warmth.  It seemed like forever since he’d kissed her goodbye the morning before.  An eternity stretched by terror.

His hand was comforting on her back, rubbing gently.  Eventually she became embarrassed by her clinginess, and she pulled away.  She cupped his face and searched his eyes.  “Are you alright?”

“More or less,” he responded with an ashamed grin that turned into a wince.

“Which is it,” Bucky said tautly.  It wasn’t a question.  It was an order for truthfulness.

“I’m okay.  Just banged up.”  That was Steve-code for bruised badly and maybe even some fractured bones.  The serum would take care of it in short order, but he’d be pretty sore tomorrow.

Natasha shared a knowing look with Bucky, but that seemed honest enough.  He’d escaped SHIELD medical, so it couldn’t be too serious.  “What about Clint and Tony?” she asked.

“They’re fine,” Steve answered quietly.  “Banged up.”  He grinned again, but it was weaker.  “It looked scarier than it ended up being.”  That didn’t assuage her concerns, not entirely, but he was already walking (limping) away, pausing to pull Bucky into half a brotherly hug before heading to the couch where James was sleeping.  “You let him wait up for me?”

Natasha nodded.  “He wanted his Daddy.”

Steve’s face fractured in an odd mixture of guilt and joy.  He knew what she wasn’t saying.  How worried she’d been to let James stay up so late.  How much James had wanted him.  He crouched with some effort at the side of the couch and brushed his hand over James’ hair.  James breathed deeply, sleeping so contentedly while Steve did nothing but stare at him, like he too was memorizing things again.  Then he slid his arms under the little body.  He lifted him up carefully and quietly made his way upstairs.  She heard James stir, his quiet voice.  “Daddy?”  Steve murmured something in reply, but she couldn’t make out what it was.

Another knowing look between Bucky and Natasha left them both feeling relieved and simultaneously empty.  Bucky sighed, looking down.  “It doesn’t get easier,” he murmured.  He closed his eyes and leaned into their couch.  “Never has.  Never will.”

Bucky ended up spending the night in their guest room.  Natasha wandered upstairs after getting him set up to find Steve had settled James into his bed.  Natasha watched him from the door, listening to their hushed, sleepy conversation but not interfering.  When James was peacefully asleep again, Steve kissed her on his way out of his room.  He limped wearily down the hall to their bedroom, not making much effort to how tired and pained he was.  She followed.  It was so late, and she was so exhausted.  She didn’t know why.  She closed the door softly behind them, and he started peeling off his dirty clothes.

Natasha couldn’t take it anymore.  She rushed across the room to embrace him and embrace him hard.  “Hey,” he said softly as she leaned back to inspect the bruises and dried blood all over him.  “Hey, love.  It’s alright.  I’m fine.”

He was.  She could see that now.  He was warm and mostly unhurt and _safe_ in her arms.  It still wasn’t enough to convince her, so she closed her eyes and kissed him hotly.  She wanted to taste and touch and feel and _know_ that what he was saying was true.  This was so much harder than it had been before.  There was so much more to lose, so much more on the line.  So much more.  She was shaken and frightened enough to be selfish.  “Don’t ever do that to me again.”  She was desperate, raining kisses all over his face.  She couldn’t think about anything else than what it would mean to _lose him_.  “You hear me?  _Never_.”

“Nat…”

“I don’t care if you have to lie to me.  Lie to me.  Tell me you won’t do that again.”

He opened his mouth, but his eyes shone in grief and hesitation.  He couldn’t make that promise.  She knew it.  She’d known it when she’d fallen in love with him, when she’d married him.  She’d known it when James was born.  She was Black Widow.  He was Captain America.

They were Avengers.

But he was her husband and the father of her son, too.  So he made a promise he couldn’t keep.  He did it because he loved her.  “I won’t.”

And she loved him, more than she could ever say.  So she believed it.


	9. Mother's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Happy Mother's Day to all the moms out there! Had to do this one, of course. Warnings for sugary sweet fluffiness. Also, for those of you who have sent prompts and requests, I swear I will get to them. Have a list of about fifteen or so, but I have them all lined up and ready to go :-). And I'm always open to more!

The door to the bedroom creaked open.  Natasha lifted her head from the pillows slightly, slowly opening her eyes to slits.  She’d been awake for a while to be honest, dozing contentedly to the hushed sounds of Steve and James downstairs in the kitchen.  It was midmorning, a peaceful, quiet Sunday in May, and the breeze that brushed the curtains of their bedroom brought with it the fresh scent of spring, lilacs and new grass and warm rain from the night before.  Despite the fact she’d been lazing for quite some time, she pretended to be asleep for the benefit of her son as he crept inside the room.

She heard Steve outside the door.  “Go on,” he said softly.  “You can wake her up.”

That emboldened James, and he approached a bit faster.  It was hard with all of his offerings clenched in his little hands.  A bunch of papers.  A bouquet of flowers.  A little purple and silver bag with tulips and glitter on it and pink tissue paper inside.  But he managed, balancing all of that as he climbed onto his parents’ bed.  “Mommy,” he called.  “Mommy, are you awake?”

Natasha sat up a bit, pushing the duvet away.  It wasn’t too easy given her current condition, but she managed.  James was nicely and neatly dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and a blue and white, short-sleeve plaid shirt.  He looked quite dapper and very much the image of his father, who was hovering just outside the doorway and not being too subtle about it.  “I’m awake, baby,” she said.  She made of show of realizing he’d brought her presents.  “Oh, are _all_ of these for me?”

“Yeah,” James said, and he thrust his gifts at her with all the gusto and grace of an almost four year-old.  “Happy Mother’s Day.”  Obviously he’d rehearsed that with Steve because he looked over his shoulder for confirmation that he’d said it right.  Steve nodded from the hallway and gave an exaggerated thumbs-up.

Natasha nearly rolled her eyes.  Instead she made room for James to sit right beside her and took the things he was giving her.  “All of this?  Wow.  Did you make this for me?”  He nodded in that strange mixture of bashfulness and overly obvious excitement that only little kids could manage.  She took the makeshift glued and taped envelope that he’d obviously built of purple construction paper.  On the front it said “MOMMY” in crayon, scribed in his messy block handwriting.  He looked on proudly as she pulled out the folded-up sheet of pink paper from inside and opened it.  “Dear Mommy,” she read.  “Happy Mother’s Day.  You’re the… best…”  It was a little difficult to decipher his scrawl.  And Steve had obviously helped him a great deal.  “… the best mommy ever.  Love, James.  Oh, sweetheart.”  She tugged him closer, examining all the flowers he’d drawn all over the card.  He drew very well for a child his age; she already suspected for the last year or so that he’d inherited his father’s flare for art.  One of the flowers was very clearly Steve’s, but James had colored it in with remarkable attention to detail.  She looked at the lower left where he’d drawn some stick figures surrounded by red hearts.  “Is this you and me?”

“Yeah,” he said.  “That’s Daddy.”  He pointed at the littler picture of Steve who was very distinctly frowning in the background.

“How come Daddy’s not happy?”

“Because Daddy said Mother’s Day is work.  And he doesn’t know how to cook.”

“I didn’t say that,” Steve protested from the hallway.  “I would never say that.”  She shot him a knowing look and really did roll her eyes.

Through with the card, James shoved a clump of flowers at her.  “Did you make these, too?” she asked, taking the bouquet.  They were comprised of fuzzy green pipe cleaners and more tissue paper, pink and purple and white.  She couldn’t help but wonder with a smile on her face if Steve had actually used the internet to figure out how to make something like this.  For as much as he loved sketching (and was amazing at it), crafts weren’t really his thing.  The thought of him browsing Pinterest was infinitely amusing.

“Uh-huh,” James said.  “Smell.”

She took a huge, pretend sniff.  “So sweet.  They’re beautiful,” she commented.

“And here!” James shouted excitedly, like he’d dispensed with the boring stuff and was getting to the good things.  He shoved the little gift bag at her.  “Open it!  Open!”  He clambered onto her lap in glee, nearly crushing her stomach before she caught him and settled him more carefully onto her thighs.  “Look, Mommy!”

“Okay, baby,” she said with a little laugh.  She chuckled at how wide his eyes were, how excited, how he grinned in anticipation, and her heart simply swelled inside her.  Her baby.  He seemed so big now, even though he was still just that: a baby.  She couldn’t help that her eyes stung just a little as she smoothed an errant lock of blond hair from his forehead.

James squirmed impatiently while she snuggled him.  He whined.  “Mommy…”

She laughed.  “Okay.  Let’s see.”  She reached inside and pulled out some things.  “Daddy took you shopping, I see.  Did you pick all of these out?”

“Yeah!”

“Ooh.  Chapstick.  My favorite flavor, no less.  And some tissues…  Chocolate covered raisins.  And…  Oh, you definitely picked this out.”  She looked up at the door where her husband was grinning like an idiot as she pulled the small package out of the bag.  “Piston Cup Lightning McQueen.  Just what I always wanted.”

“He shops from the heart,” Steve quipped, leaning against the door frame.

“A gift that gives back to the giver,” she commented.

This was obviously what James had been so excited about because he practically snatched the little car from his mother’s hands. “James,” Steve warned gently as he came inside the room.

“Mommy, can I please play with it?  Please?  Please!  Please!” James begged, bouncing on Natasha’s lap enthusiastically.  Steve reached over and quickly grabbed him to move him away from Natasha’s stomach.

Natasha laughed, cupping James’ little face in her hands.  “Of course you can,” she said.  She brought him in for a kiss on the forehead.  Then she rubbed their noses together a little and tickled him.  “Thank you, baby.  Those were the nicest gifts anyone has ever given me.”  And they were.

James giggled and took off, squirming out of her hold to go running out of his parents’ bedroom to his new room.  The sound of his little bare feet thundering down the hall seemed to shake the house.  Natasha could only imagine the slew of cars that would be all over the place in short order.

“Keep digging in that bag,” Steve reminded, sitting on his side of the bed.  She looked back at him, trying to read his expression, but his capacity to have an actual poker face had increased exponentially since they’d started working together as partners so long ago.  She supposed that was what she got for insisting on teaching him to be a SHIELD agent.  A little bubble of excitement (at least, she thought that was what it was – it was hard to tell nowadays) percolated up from her belly, and she snatched the bag back up and dug through the tissue paper.  At the bottom there was a long, black, velvet case.  She schooled her features, keeping her own excitement off her face, as she pulled the box loose.  Only one sort of thing came packaged up like this.  She failed at keeping a smile from her lips as she glanced at him from the corner of her eyes.  Aside from her engagement and wedding rings, Steve had _never_ bought her jewelry.  She’d made it pretty clear early on in their relationship that she wasn’t interested in candies and flowers and silly tokens of affection.  But she couldn’t deny that little bubble of glee as it turned into a warm wave of happiness.  And she couldn’t deny she was thrilled at the surprise as she opened the case.

It was a tennis bracelet and obviously a very expensive one if the number, size, and quality of the diamonds were any indication.  The sunlight caught it, and it almost glowed.  “That one I picked out,” Steve said.  He was proud and worried at the same time.  That expression so reminded her of James.  He scooted closer.  “But it’s from both of us.  Well, all of us.”  He smiled sheepishly.  She wanted to kiss him until they both couldn’t breathe.  “I wanted to get you something with their birthstones, since I guess that’s the usual Mother’s Day thing, but… well, if this one doesn’t show up on time, that would be awkward.”  He pressed his hand to the swell of her stomach.  “Do you like it?”

Of course she did.  It was hard to keep a ridiculous grin from her face.  She failed pretty tremendously.  “I love it.”  She picked the bracelet up out of the box and inspected it, a little too touched and emotional (it was the hormones.  Really) to do much more than breathe through the tightening of her chest.

He beamed.  Carefully he took the bracelet, wrapped it around her wrist, and fumbled with the clasp for a moment before fastening the ends together.  Then he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed each of her knuckles.  “Happy Mother’s Day, Nat.”

“C’mere,” she managed in a throaty whisper, taking the side of his face and pulling him closer for a long kiss which continued and continued until something downstairs started to beep.  Vaguely she realized it was the oven, but she was too entranced with the feel of his arms around her and his lips on hers to care.

“Daddy!” James hollered at the top of his lungs.  “Daddy!  It’s ready!”

Groaning in annoyance, Steve pulled away.  “And I _do_ know how to cook,” he huffed indignantly.  “Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied cheekily.  She looked back at the bracelet, loving the way it sparkled.  It was stupid and silly and trite, but she felt beautiful.

He grinned just a bit smugly, definitely noticing how elated she was.  “Breakfast’s coming.  I’ll bring it up when it’s done.”

“Steve, you don’t need to–”

He waved aside her objections.  “Yeah, I do.  I got this.  I’ll take care of James all day.  You do whatever you want.  Relax.  We’ll leave you alone.”  He lowered himself down to her stomach.  “You hear that in there?  You leave Mommy be.”  He kissed her tummy before standing up and heading out of their bedroom.

“ _Daddy!_   It’s burning!” James yelled.

“James, don’t yell!” Steve yelled back.  “And it’s not burning!”  There were running feet again and the sound of James squealing as Steve probably lifted him.  Despite his assertions, he was pretty much racing down the steps.

Natasha smiled and shook her head.  She pulled the duvet back up and settled herself back down again.  It felt strange to be pampered, to be left to her own devices like this.  She couldn’t recall ever having the opportunity to spend an entire day however she wanted to, not when she’d been an assassin, not as a SHIELD agent and an Avenger, and certainly not as a mother.  Maybe that was an even better gift than the bracelet.

Maybe.

But it definitely wasn’t better than her card and flowers.

The little one inside her promptly ignored his father’s advice and kicked her hard.  “You listen about as well as they do,” she murmured, shaking her head with a soft smile.  There was that tingle of excitement again, a little jolt of love.  She swept her hand over her belly, watching the sun stream through the window to dance on the bracelet.  _Three more months._   Three more months until she was going to be someone else’s mother.  Steve was going to be a father again.  And James would have a little brother.  Sometimes she couldn’t believe it.  Three more months seemed like a long time, but she knew it wasn’t.  She was scared and exhilarated and worried all at once and all over again.  Most of all, though, she knew she should do as Steve suggested and take this moment to relax.  If this baby was anything like his father and brother, she was going to have her hands full.

And it _was_ Mother’s Day, after all.  Breakfast in bed.  Steve taking care of her, taking care of James and the house, taking care of _everything_.  A bunch of beautiful presents.  James’ sweet card and precious flowers.  Lazing and resting and _enjoying_ herself.  What could be better than that?

Nothing, really.  She knew she’d never deserve this life that she’d somehow been given.  She had always been many things to many people.  A spy.  An assassin.  A SHIELD agent and an Avenger.  A lover.  A fighter.  Still, the best of all she’d done and all she’d been was being a wife and mother.  She didn’t think it was possible to feel so much love.  Or to be loved so much.

But it was.


	10. Assassins Make the Best Babysitters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Warnings for inappropriate usage of Nerf guns. And Bucky and Clint being idiots.

The doorbell rang.  Bucky looked up from where he was playing cars and monsters with James on the living room floor of Steve and Natasha’s house.  His eyes narrowed, and his brow furrowed in confusion.  “Were Mom and Dad expecting anyone?” he asked.

James shook his head, but he got up off the carpet and ran toward the door.  Bucky groaned, standing to follow him.  It couldn’t be Steve and Natasha back so early, and why would they ring the doorbell to their own house?  “Just wait,” Bucky commanded as James scrambled to reach the doorknob.  Bucky pushed him away gently, unlocked the front door, and opened it.  He was moderately surprised and more than unhappy at who he found, but he sure wasn’t going to let that get to his face.  “Barton,” he greeted neutrally.

Clint seemed equally displeased.  “Barnes.”

“Unca Clint!” James shouted in glee.  “Unca Clint!  Unca Clint!”

Bucky held the excited boy back a little, staring at Clint suspiciously.  “What are you doing here?”

“Nat called me.  She said she needed someone to watch James.”  Bucky gave up on holding James back and let him run toward Clint.  Clint crouched, the wary, guarded expression disappearing from his face in an instant.  “Hey, buddy!”  He scooped James up, swinging him around and getting him onto his back.  James squealed with glee.

Bucky gritted his teeth.  “Well, obviously there was a moment of miscommunication, since Steve called me to do the same.  So you can go.  Bye.”

Clint unceremoniously galloped his way into the house without being invited (the very opposite of being invited, in fact), James giggling all the while.  “I’m here.  Nat told me to be here.”

“You don’t need to be here.  And don’t you have kids of your own?”

“Laura’s watchin’ ’em.”

“Good for you.  Now go home.”

“Nah,” Clint returned.  He set James down and gave Bucky a positively smug smile, like he was _daring_ him to take this further.  Despite the fact that two people about whom they cared deeply were married and had a child (and were at that very moment in the process of having another one), both Clint and Bucky harbored some less than pleasant opinions about the other.  Steve was like a brother to Bucky, and Natasha was like a sister to Clint, so one would think the two of them would have hit it off.  Moreover, they were both assassins by trade, expert marksmen and fighters, and they both had seen and done many things of which they weren’t particularly proud.  That was all the more reason that they should understand each other, find a kindred spirit in one another.

However, that couldn’t be further from the case.  They just couldn’t get along.  It had been something of a running joke among the Avengers over the last few years, particularly since James had been born.  Granted, Bucky hadn’t been well accepted among the team at first, and Clint had immediately disliked the idea of him being around Natasha (and Steve, for that matter).  It didn’t help that the Winter Soldier had shot and nearly killed both Black Widow and Captain America.  But even when Bucky had proven himself to be every bit as deserving of the Avengers’ admiration and respect as anyone else on the team, Clint had held out.  Everyone else had welcomed him into their group, everyone except Hawkeye.  It became obvious why, and it wasn’t for the dark and damaged reasons the others had feared.

No, this was significantly pettier and far more testosterone-driven.  For some inexplicable reason, the two of them were caught up in some unnecessary and ridiculous competition about who was better.  The better marksman.  The better eye.  The better fighter.   And that bled from the battlefield into their family life.  The better friend.  The better brother.  The better uncle.  That last one was a particularly sore spot between them (and particularly aggravating to Steve and Natasha).  The two of them couldn’t stand the one-upmanship between Clint and Bucky when it came to James, although their own actions had sadly started and continued to perpetuate the problem.  James was Bucky’s namesake, but Clint was James’ godfather.  Whenever Steve was away and Natasha needed or wanted help, it was Clint who came (or she took James to Clint and Laura’s).  Whenever it was the other way around, Steve had Bucky over.  This wasn’t to say the two assassins were openly hostile to each other; that was far from the truth.  They were cordial and friendly enough.  But they weren’t exactly pals, either, and everyone knew it.  And far be it for _either_ of them to admit the other was just as capable and wanted.

Case in point.  This was just a misunderstanding.  Natasha had been going over some reports with Maria Hill when she’d started having contractions.  Steve had rushed home from the Avengers facility, and they’d been forced to leave James with Maria for a few minutes (never a pleasant experience for anyone) until appropriate babysitting reinforcements had arrived.  Obviously Steve and Natasha had been too flustered with getting out of the house and to the hospital to coordinate with each other.  Steve had called Bucky.  Natasha had called Clint.

And here they were.

Bucky felt his eyelid twitch as Clint pointedly went into the kitchen, got himself a bottle of beer, and came back to plop down on the couch.  “James and I were in the middle of something,” he said as if what they’d been in the middle of had been far more important than a monster Hot Wheels mash-up.

“I see that.  What were you playing, Jimmy?”  Clint was the only one who called James that.  Bucky’s eyelid twitched again.  He’d always _hated_ when anyone had called him “Jimmy” as a kid.  Steve had made the mistake of doing it once when they’d been five or six years old and newly joined at the hip as best buds.  Bucky had nearly socked him.

James didn’t mind it, though.  He even seemed to like it.  “Cars, Unca Clint!  You wanna play, too?”

Clint looked right at Bucky and smiled, the jerk.  “Sure, buddy.  Hey, are you excited about being a big brother?”

“Uh-huh,” James answered, crawling up onto Clint’s lap with his cars.  “But Daddy says I gotta be careful with the baby and careful with Mommy.”  James was only just four, and they’d known for a couple of years now that he’d inherited the super soldier serum from his father.  Steve had been stressing to him that he needed to be extra gentle with his new little brother because he already seemed to have the propensity to accidentally break things not made to handle enhanced strength in a toddler.

Clint smiled.  “That’s right.  And when Mommy comes home with the new baby, you need to be extra good.  Right?”

This was the talk that Bucky had planned on giving James that afternoon.  And now birdbrain was here, swooping in like the _better_ uncle and stealing the wind right out of his sails.  “Barton, really,” he said, trying to be civil.  “I don’t need you here.  Go home.”

“I don’t think Jimmy wants me to go,” Clint returned, looking down on James.  He knew exactly what he was doing, the buttons he was pressing.  “I was invited to play cars.  Why don’t you go?  I got this.”  The offer wasn’t entirely snide.  He really meant it.  But then he couldn’t help himself.  “Go home and polish your guns.  Or your arm.”

Bucky seethed.  “Go string your bow, cupid.  What do you use, chest hair?”

“At least I have some.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Anybody ever tell you you’re like a lamer version of the Terminator?”

This was degrading quickly.  “Anybody ever tell you that you–”

“You guys aren’t being nice to each other,” James reprimanded, and if the tone of his voice didn’t remind Bucky of Natasha, he didn’t know what did.  “Mommy doesn’t like that.  You have to play nice or you can’t play.”

That fairly effectively shut the both of them up.  Bucky glared at Clint.  Clint did much the same to Bucky.  And James slid down off of Clint’s lap and headed back to the toys strewn all over the living room floor.  And that was the beginning of the tense truce.

An hour went by or so.  Neither of the two assassins left.  It was almost comical, the way they were keeping an eye on each other.  Doubtful, wary, and suspicious.  And it was pretty pathetic how they both played with James but not at the same time so they wouldn’t have to play with _each other._   When James got interested in the antics of Clint, Bucky left, retreating to the kitchen with the excuse of getting a drink so he could skulk in the shadows and watch his arch nemesis talk and hug and play with one of the people he cared about most in this world.  He had to admit (he _had_ to) that Clint was good with James.  He’d only met Clint’s kids once or twice, but he could see Clint was a good father to them.  He went back after conducting his surveillance, and rather wordlessly, Barton managed to do the same.  When James wanted Uncle Bucky to wrestle with him, Uncle Clint conveniently went to call his wife and update her on the situation.  Bucky could feel Hawkeye’s eyes on him from the other room, watching him intently like he was scanning for signs of weakness.  _There aren’t any._   He was going to wait Clint out.  He’d go home eventually, and Bucky would win.  Bucky would be the better uncle.  Some rational part of his brain realized this was stupid and childish and he should really be concerned with Steve and Natasha and the new baby.  But something about Barton just rubbed him the wrong way, too wrong to just let it go.

Another hour went by during this Cold War.  It was getting close to dinnertime, and Barton was _still there._   Bucky went to the kitchen to find something to make James for dinner, listening to the archer entertain their charge. James’ toys were _everywhere_ in the living room; they probably should have had James clean up before dinner, but that didn’t happen.  And they probably should have had James come to the table to eat, but that didn’t happen, either.  Bucky brought the plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, some apples, and a cup of milk to where Clint and James had built a fort out of the couch cushions and throws.  There were action figures and Nerf darts all over the place as the “Avengers” tried to attack “HYDRA” inside the fort.  “You hear anything?” Clint asked as James jumped up to go eat.

Bucky got him on the couch and set his plate onto his lap.  He affectionately brushed his flesh and blood hand through soft blond hair.  The older James got, the more he looked and reminded him of Steve.  It was uncanny.  “No,” he responded.  _And even if I had, I wouldn’t tell you._   Clint grunted.  There was a flash of worry on his face.  Then he pushed himself up with a groan.  “Gettin’ stiff there, old man?”

“Not as old as you,” Clint responded with a stretch that popped joints.  “What are you now, like a hundred?  Hey, did you write into the _Today Show_ to have your hundredth birthday announced?  Did you get some jam when you did?  Strawberry.”

Bucky had no idea what Barton was talking about, but it was surely an insult.  “I could take you out, Barton.”

“In your dreams, Barnes,” Clint responded.  “Right, Jimmy?”  Now he was the one who ruffled James’ hair.

Bucky seethed.  Enough was enough.  Honestly, this wasn’t like him.  At least, not like the man he’d become.  He was very much into not making waves these days, as though by being quiet and controlled he could atone for the things he’d done.  But Clint brought out the stubborn young man buried inside him who’d never stood for being beat (honestly, where did people think Steve learned that behavior?).  “Alright.  You know what?  Let’s settle this.”  He shouldn’t – he really shouldn’t – but he went there.  “James,” he said, dropping to a crouch beside the little boy and being extra careful to emphasize his name, “you tell Uncle Bucky.  Who’s better, Uncle Bucky or Uncle Clint?”

James looked at him like he didn’t get it.  Why would he?  It was completely _stupid._   Clint set his hand on James’ shoulder.  “Yeah, buddy.  Who’s cooler?  Uncle Bucky, who couldn’t hit a target if it was planted right in front of his nose, or Uncle Clint, who could bulls-eye it from a mile away?”  Of course, James had no idea what they were talking about.  He had his mouth full of sandwich, anyway.  “Who could wipe the floor with the other one?  Who’s the master of all master assassins?”

Bucky resisted the urge to scowl.  He wasn’t above flaunting.  “Last I checked, I was the world’s deadliest.”

Clint made a face, putting his hands over James’ ears.  “Nat doesn’t like that kind of talk.  No bringing work into the house.”

“Are you kidding me?  You started it.”

“ _You_ started it.  Making a child choose between his beloved uncles.  Despicable.”

“You went along with it!  What kind of father are you?”

Clint dropped his hands from James’ head.  “An _awesome_ one.  It’s alright to be jealous.”

“I was the one who nailed the engine on that jet the other day,” Bucky reminded.  He had.  The bad guys had been trying to escape and were well into the air by the time Steve had noticed and yelled for someone to stop them.  Tony had been busy.  Thor had been on the other side of the city.  Sam’s suit was down.  _He_ had made the shot and saved the mission _and_ the day.  “Did you forget that?  It must have been a few hundred yards easy.  You tried.  But you missed.”

Barton looked furious, genuinely affronted by the implication that he couldn’t have done the same.  “I was busy getting the cra–”

Now Bucky closed his hands over James’ head.  “Language,” he chastised.  “Steve doesn’t like that kind of talk.”

Clint’s eyelid twitched.  Then he turned, stalking back into the living room and rummaging around through the mess all over the place.  He was obviously looking for something.  Bucky watched.  So did James.  “What’s he doin’, Unca Buck?”

“I don’t know, pal,” Bucky said ruefully.  “He’s gone off his rocker.”

Clint returned, bearing two Nerf guns and every Nerf dart he could find.  “You want to settle this?” He tossed Bucky a gun, which he easily caught.  “Let’s settle it the old-fashioned way.”

“What?  A duel?”

Clint smirked.  “Target practice.”

It started off simple enough.  They lined up James’ action figures on the dining room table and commenced with a contest of accuracy.  James watched in delight as his two uncles went head to head with the Nerf guns, collecting the darts and jumping up and down in excitement whenever one of his toys was toppled.  Both of the men were diligently keeping score as the darts flew and knocked down the figurines in rapid succession.  Of course, just hitting them quickly proved to be a boring challenge and an inadequate measure of their advanced skills.  Then it became who could do it faster.  With the most finesse.  At the greatest distance.

“You’re cheating,” Bucky proclaimed in annoyance.  He looked at his Nerf gun in disgust.  It didn’t have enough power in the spring-loader, and he was pretty sure Clint’s did because Bucky was hitting his targets dead on but _losing_ because they weren’t falling over _._   “Your gun’s better.”

“They’re the same,” Clint argued, sighting down his gun to shoot another dart.  The blue foam projectile dinged off the arm of one of James’ monsters and careened behind the table.  “You’re just jealous of my skills.”

“Trade with me if you think they’re the same.”

“No.”

_“Trade.”_

“Nope.”

“Mommy doesn’t like it when people don’t share,” James added, standing between his two uncles and looking disappointed.

“Yeah, well, Mommy doesn’t like Nerf darts all over, either, and here we are,” Clint returned.  His next shot struck true, knocking the action figure right off the edge.  He smiled in smug satisfaction.  “I rule.”

That was it.  Bucky turned and pointed his Nerf gun right at Barton’s chest and shot him.  The little blue dart hit dead-on, of course, bouncing off Clint’s t-shirt.  Both James and Clint stared at the fallen dart in shock.  Then James scrunched his lips into a frown and shook his head.  “Mommy said never to shoot anyone.”

It was too late for that sort of logic.  Clint and Bucky shared a single knowing, irritated look, and suddenly they scattered in a blur.  They were both moving like lightning, scooping up ammo and reloading their Nerf guns before taking cover behind furniture.  James shrieked in joy, running around wildly, as his uncles attempted to pelt each other with foam.

In short order, the living room turned into a warzone.  Toys were even more strewn and knocked aside.  Nerf darts were _everywhere_.  Pillows fell to the floor and furniture was jostled and rumpled and shoved around.  It was a humongous mess.  The master assassins were in too deep to back off now.  After being flushed from under the coffee table, Bucky was hiding behind the larger couch, listening, poised for his next strike.  His hair had come loose of its pony tail, and he was panting.  Just a little.  Barton was somewhere on the other side of the room.  Maybe behind the loveseat.  Maybe in the corner by the bookcase.  “James!” he hissed.  James was climbing on the couch, hanging over the back.  “James, I need ammo!”

“Okay, Unca Buck!”  James ran to collect darts.  Bucky peeked over the top of the couch.  He couldn’t see Barton.  Hawkeye could apparently see him, though.  A barrage of darts struck the sofa, bouncing around wildly, and Bucky ducked.  _Missed._ When he looked again, James was running the _other_ way, delivering his supply to Clint.  He’d probably forgotten to whom he was supposed to give them.  _Traitor._   Bucky bounded over the back of the couch to gather the darts on the seats, nimbly reloading his gun.  “Unca Buck!  Unca Buck!  I found Unca Clint!”

Bucky couldn’t help his howl of triumph as he jumped across the living room to where James was pointing.  He unloaded his Nerf gun, firing in rapid succession.  Almost all of his shots struck true.  James laughed as Clint tried in vain to protect himself.  He’d managed to get his own gun loaded, though, and when Bucky’s ran dry, he returned with a barrage of darts himself.  Bucky grimaced, hit in the chest and arms and once in the face (those things kind of stung – maybe Natasha had been right about never shooting anyone).  When it was over, Clint had his Nerf gun pointed at him, and he had his pointed at Clint, and neither of them had any darts.

A quick glance around revealed they were scattered all over but none were within reach except for one, which was balanced precariously on a couch cushion between them.  Bucky glanced from it to Clint, seeing that Clint was coming to the exact same realization at the exact same time.  _Get it._ The two of them launched themselves at the dart, nearly smacking their heads together.  Soon it became a tangle of limbs, a scramble for stupid foam bullet that was trapped between them somewhere.  Neither of them could find it.  It was ridiculous, Bucky trying to pin Clint, Clint trying to pin Bucky.  And James, of course, saw a pile of uncles and promptly threw himself on top.  Bucky grunted with the weight, little elbows digging into his midriff.  James somehow found and snatched the dart and triumphantly yelled, “I win!”  James beamed, jumping on them both.  “I’m the best!”

And then Bucky couldn’t help but laugh.  Clint groaned at the bottom of the mess, but his groan turned into a chuckle and then into a loud laugh, too.  Lord, they were dumb.  “C’mere, kiddo,” Clint said, snatching James off of Bucky and knuckling his head.  Bucky watched the two of them, realizing for all his dislike of Clint, of course he _was_ a good father.  And a good uncle.  And maybe…  “Best two out of three?” Clint offered.

Before Bucky could answer, the front door of the house opened.  The two assassins and James turned in their pile of destruction to look.  “What in the world…” Steve murmured, eyes wide and face slack as he gazed upon the mess.  After a moment of shock, he settled a glare on his two friends and his son.

As bad as that was, though, it was _nothing_ compared to Natasha’s.  She stood beside her husband, exhausted and a little bedraggled.  Her hands were resting on her _still_ pregnant stomach.  She looked positively _murderous._

The silence couldn’t have been any thicker.  Bucky felt his heart pounding in horror.  He pointed at Clint, and Clint almost beat him to it.  “He did it,” they both said together.  James seemed mostly oblivious to the trouble they were in, scooting out of Clint’s arms and running to his mother.  Clint climbed gingerly to his feet, looking around and realizing probably for the first time that they’d destroyed the living room.  “You’re, uh… looking rather piqued there, Nat.  And the baby appears to be in the wrong place.”

Natasha’s eye _twitched._   “It was a false alarm,” she said evenly.  And, Lord Almighty, they were in for it.  Behind Natasha, Steve just shook his head helplessly, like he was pleading with the two of them to not make it worse.  Bucky could only imagine how bad it was, what sort of mood Natasha was in.  A wasted afternoon.  Her patience worn down to _nothing._ Biting off heads and spitting fire.  Between being hugely pregnant, hormonal, and having her home turned into a disaster, he supposed they were all lucky to still be breathing at this point.  “They sent us home.  Obviously.”

“Bummer,” Clint said, wincing.

She came in the house, bending down as much as she could to lift James up.  Steve looked like he wanted to tell her to stop, but one quick glance (glare) from her silenced him before he could even get the words out of his mouth.  “You two,” she said to Clint and Bucky as she shifted James onto her hip, “will pick up _every last one_ of those darts and put them away.  Every toy goes in the bin.  Couch cushions off the floor.  Put my house back together.”

“Nat–” Clint said, white in the face.

She shut him up fast with a glare.  Then she walked away, kissing James and trying to explain to him that his little brother just wasn’t ready to come out yet while hiding her own disappointment.  Steve looked at the mess and then at the two of them.  “Do I even want to know?” he groaned.

Clint nudged Bucky in the ribs.  “He started it.”  Bucky scowled.

“Don’t care.”  Steve picked up a Nerf dart that he’d accidentally squished under his shoe.  “Something tells me I would have been better off leaving James in charge.”

“Probably,” Clint conceded.  He appraised the mess, nodding to himself like it was a job well done.  “Well, I think you’re right, Barnes.  You don’t need me here.  You’ve got this all in hand.”

Bucky glowered.  “Oh, no.  I need you, Barton.  You have no idea how much.”

“No, you don’t.  Got my own kids, right?  And you’re James’ best uncle.  He said so.”

Steve looked confused for a second.  Then he rolled his eyes.  “Tell me you weren’t making my son choose between you.  That you didn’t actually go that far.  Please tell me that.”

“We were,” Clint conceded, absolutely sincere and honest, “and he chose Uncle Bucky.  So I’ll just be going…”

“Not on your life,” Bucky said, taking Clint’s arm as he turned away.  “You wanted to stay.  So stay and share in the fun.”

Clint sighed, grimacing like he’d been caught and cornered.  “This is _your_ fault.”

“Less talking, more cleaning!” Natasha yelled sharply from upstairs.

“Mommy doesn’t like mess!” James added.

And the three of them (Steve included) hopped to it.  Lucky for them, superheroes made pretty decent house cleaners.


	11. Staking a Claim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This is a response to Yvonne's request for jealous Nat. Jealous Steve will be coming in a bit. Enjoy, my darlings!

As it turned out, Lillian from accounting was not Steve’s type at all.  And it wasn’t the lip piercing.  That was actually the least of Natasha’s problems with her.  She was pretty, and she was modern, and she was sweet.  And she was bold and flirty.

And she obviously had no idea that Black Widow had already staked a claim on Captain America.

Of course, there really wasn’t a way for her to know because no one knew.  Natasha had barely begun to admit it to herself.  Steve didn’t even know because she’d never told him.  Her claim was invisible and thus groundless and meaningless to anyone but her.  She and Steve been partners for a while, months of missions spent in close quarters and dangerous situations, and she’d only recently realized that their working relationship had grown from barely getting along together to good friends to something more.  The way he looked at her now had her head spinning and her stomach tying itself into knots of desire.  Her brain was adamantly telling her heart to come to its senses and her heart emphatically shouting back _No!_   She couldn’t deny it anymore, that somehow he’d cut through her defenses and her masks and slipped like a warm breeze right into the cold core of her.  She’d spent months flirting with him, relishing the power that gave her, enjoying his flustered inability to figure out what she wanted.  That was who she was, what she did.  And she hadn’t wanted him, of course.  At first.  She was Black Widow and she didn’t need, let alone want, anyone.  But now that _she’d_ figured out that was a load of nonsense, she didn’t know what to do.

Clint had somehow known for a while.  He always had known her better than she’d known herself.  She was even starting to think her friend was _trying_ to move things along in a direction even she hadn’t realized and had been for weeks.  Clint was very protective of his family, and yet he’d invited her and Steve (who he didn’t know nearly as well) over numerous times now for dinners and Sunday afternoon barbecues.  He’d told her (in not so many words) to stop being a moron and start following her heart.  Laura had said the same, in a kinder, gentler way.  _Follow your heart._ Lot of help that was.  Her heart was the thing getting her into this mess.

What was worse, now that she recognized what she felt for Steve, her efforts to set him up with every available female SHIELD agent she could find were backfiring stupendously.  Some small part of her was realizing her continual suggestion of this girl or that date had been some sort of defense mechanism, like if she hooked him up with someone else it would remove the desire to want more with him than what they had.  It hadn’t at all, and now the fruits of her labors were appearing before her very eyes.  To put it mildly, it was making her blood boil.  It was too late to just _undo_ what she’d stupidly done.  Any move on her part to dissuade him would seem clumsy, conflicted, and far too telling of the secret things racing around in her head and heart.  What was she supposed to do?  Tell him _not_ to date anyone?  After months of trying to set him up, that would come off as totally nonsensical, which would in turn lead him to ask why.

She wasn’t prepared to answer that.  She didn’t know if she ever would be.  She _couldn’t_ want this with him, even if she was fairly certain he wanted it, too.  She just couldn’t.  There were boundaries for a reason, rules for a reason.  Some lines weren’t meant to be crossed.

On the other hand, she couldn’t just stand there and watch women like Lillian make pass after pass at him.  It was _painful._   Lillian was only the latest in a _long_ line of them, too.  It was like a race to get him, if the gossip among SHIELD’s female populace was to be believed (heck, the world’s female populace if the internet was to be believed).  Steve was handsome and wholesome and Captain America for God’s sake.  He attracted female attention _everywhere_ without even trying.  And he had that adorable quality of being absolutely oblivious as to how attractive he was.  Women flocked to him in droves.  This time, though… This seemed more serious.  More threatening.  She didn’t know if Steve had made some sort of overture at Lillian (Natasha doubted it; for all the would-be dates she’d tried to set up for him, he’d never seemed the least bit interested), or maybe Lillian had somehow gotten wind of Natasha’s suggestion that Steve find someone and thought it was a good one…  Or maybe (God forbid) she and Steve were honestly compatible.

 _No._   This wasn’t a coincidence.  Lillian had stopped wearing her lip ring these last few days and done her hair and make-up more conservatively, like she was making a conscious effort to seem more Steve’s type.  Not that Natasha was stalking her (hardly).  She’d just noticed these things.  Like she’d also noticed Lillian “spontaneously” showing up in places she normally wouldn’t, like in the Triskelion’s command center or down in the gym.  She’d toned down her demeanor even, seeming a tad shy and soft-spoken and not like the woman Natasha had met before.

And Natasha knew this game.  She knew it better than anyone.  Lillian was trying to put the moves on Steve, and Steve being Steve didn’t realize it.  That stoked to life all sorts of feelings in Natasha, from simple old-fashioned jealousy to unabashed rage that this girl was encroaching on _her_ territory (since when had Steve become her territory?) to a driving need to protect her partner (sure, that was all it was).  She didn’t know what Lillian’s intentions were, but nothing less than absolute commitment and purity would satisfy Natasha (even if she didn’t typically believe in those things herself, but Steve deserved that and there was no force on earth that would stop her from getting it for him).  She’d been aware that Lillian had dated and broken up with a few other agents and techs during the last couple of years.  However, once she’d started in with actually pursuing Steve, Natasha done some deeper sleuthing.  This seemingly sweet and charming girl was anything but.  Messy break-ups.  Unflattering rumors.  Of course, her own dislike and envy might have been coloring her interpretations of what she’d learned a little ( _a lot_ ), but none of that changed the fact that Lillian had no business trying to woo Steve Rogers.  And she wasn’t going to stand for it anymore.

Not after this.

Fury had asked Steve to teach a basic martial arts class to the non-combat ready personnel and new recruits a few months ago.  The Director had thought (and rightly so) that if Captain America led the training sessions, more people would be inclined to attend.  Well, Lillian was _very_ inclined to attend.  Natasha was watching from the back of the gym, swathed in shadows with her arms folded across her chest and her eyes narrowed, as Lillian enthusiastically offered herself up every time Steve needed a volunteer.  She was watching as she played dumb about what Steve wanted her to do so he’d get closer and show her.  She was watching as she pretended to be sloppier about the moves than she actually was, falling into Steve’s broad chest and muscular arms, smiling sweetly at his flustered blushes.  She was watching as she giggled, blushed, smiled, and “accidentally” grabbed his butt.

Natasha saw red.

Later, after the training session ended, she waited in the locker room for most of the other women to clear out.  Then she skulked out of the shadows and headed pointedly toward Lillian, who was drowning herself in perfume.  It was nearly overwhelming.  So was her self-satisfied smile.  Natasha kept trying to tell herself to give this girl the benefit of the doubt, knowing that she was projecting, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to manage that.  “What’s your interest in the Captain?”

Anyone else would have been surprised and probably terrified.  Lillian just turned away from the locker and appraised her evenly.  “What’s yours, Agent Romanoff?”

Natasha leaned her shoulder against the row of lockers, folding her arms across her chest again and glaring.  “I saw what you were doing out there,” she commented evenly, cocking an eyebrow.

Lillian seemed nonplussed, shaking her blond hair loose over her shoulders.  “What was I doing?  Learning?   Practicing?”

“Throwing yourself at him.”

Green eyes turned piercing and threatening.  “I was flirting. And so what?  Last I checked, that isn’t a crime.  Captain Rogers is a nice guy, but he seems so sad and lonely, don’t you think?  Even after all this time in the future, working with you…  He still needs someone to show him a good time.”

Natasha bristled at the implication.  This girl had guts, talking to her like that.  A lot of guts for an accountant, anyway.  “He’s not just another guy you can date and then drop.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” she insisted.  Natasha couldn’t tell if she was faking the insulted and hurt note in her voice.  “And even if I was, why shouldn’t I?  Because he’s special?  Because he’s Captain America?  Because he’s your partner?”  Lillian smiled a cool smile.  “Don’t think that you know me enough to know what I want.  Or that you know what he wants.”

Did that imply that Lillian had gotten closer some other time of which Natasha wasn’t aware?  That she’d _talked_ with Steve, had coffee with him or lunch or…  Now Natasha _really_ saw red, and she stepped closer, encroaching on the other woman’s space.  “I know him.  And I know you,” she declared without a speck of doubt.  “Whatever game you’re playing?  I’ve played it.  Mastered it.  Invented it.  I know _exactly_ what you’re doing.  Don’t play with him.”

“What are you, his keeper?” Lillian asked.  Finally she looked just a tad riled.  She was handling it well, hiding it with a cold expression and taunts, but Natasha could see it.  “It’s not your job to protect him just because you’ve decided I wouldn’t be good for him.”  Lillian’s grin turned feral.  Predatory.  “Unless Black Widow has a little crush.”  Natasha kept her expression completely neutral, but somehow that wasn’t enough.  When it came to Steve, none of her usual facades and tactics worked as well as they should have.  “Wow.  You’re jealous.  That’s it, isn’t it?  I can’t believe it.  There’s a heart under all that ice and–”

“Stay away from Steve,” Natasha warned.  She couldn’t be any clearer than that.

Surprisingly, Lillian wasn’t daunted.  Anyone else would be.  Natasha was a world-renowned spy and assassin and an Avenger to boot.  She was among the upper echelons of SHIELD.  And she _was_ Steve’s partner.  And his friend.  “Is he yours?”  Natasha didn’t respond, narrowing her eyes and knowing that Lillian knew the answer to that.  “Then it shouldn’t matter to you.  Mind your own business.”  The other woman slammed the locker shut, grabbed her gym bag, and left.

Natasha stood there, seething and reeling.  What was the matter with her, being bested by someone like that?  _She didn’t best me._   Lillian was wrong.  This wasn’t just about jealousy.  This girl would hurt Steve, perhaps not on purpose, but Steve wasn’t looking for a fast hook-up.  Natasha knew that.  Lillian was _wrong_ for him, wrong on every level ( _they all were_ ), and Natasha wouldn’t be much of a friend if she let something like that happen to him.  He was still so naïve, so trusting and blind to the ways of this modern world.  She couldn’t let him stumble into a hook-up like this.  _He can take care of himself._   Couldn’t he?  It was like Lillian had said.  This wasn’t her business.  It wasn’t her job to protect him.  He wasn’t _hers._

_Yes, he is._

That was it.  She wasn’t going to lie to herself anymore.  She wanted him, and she knew he wanted her, and anything else was just plain _nonsense._

She was out of the locker room and across the gym to the men’s side and bursting through the door before she thought better of it.  Thankfully, almost everyone was already gone, though some guy let out a high-pitched shriek of horror and retreated back into the showers and a couple more just stared unabashedly.  She ignored them, strolling confidently through with her eyes narrowed and her chin high.  Steve was in the back, pulling his shirt over his head.  “Nat, what’re you–”

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by her mouth.  He gave a surprised “oomf” and stumbled back into the lockers, barely getting her arms around her before she was smothering him.  The kiss was nothing less than _possessive_ , hot and powerful and demanding.  He didn’t stop her.  He didn’t push her back.  _He didn’t turn her away._

He did come up for air, though, gently planting his hands on her shoulders to separate them.  “What are you doing?” he gasped, wide-eyed and shocked.

She searched his face, saw the goodness in his eyes she’d come to adore.  “Something I should have done a long time ago,” she responded breathlessly.  The corner of her mouth turned upward into a sly smile.  “Staking a claim.”

His expression ran through the gamut, surprise and concern and confusion before finally settling on understanding.  She was terrified a moment that she’d been wrong, that she’d gone too far and wrecked their friendship (which was the only thing that really mattered).  Terrified before she saw _relief_.  “Why didn’t you say something?  All this time…”

“I…  I don’t know.  I was being an idiot.” It took a lot to admit that.

“You kept trying to…”

It took even more to admit this.  “I was scared.” 

Then he smiled.  Her favorite smile.  The one she imagined was just for her.  “Okay.”

He was exasperating sometimes.  “Okay, Rogers?  Just okay?”

“Sure.”  He leaned down, kissing her hard and with much better finesse and far more intent.  “As long as you keep staking your claim,” he ordered low against her ear.

She was going to.

A few days later, Lillian was back to wearing her lip ring.  And Natasha couldn’t be more satisfied.


	12. Memorial Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Happy Memorial Day, everyone! This one's dedicated to everyone who has so bravely given his or her life so that we can all have a chance at a bright future.

Every year on Memorial Day, Steve made the rounds.  He had since the first spring after he’d been found in the ice and defrosted by SHIELD.  Natasha had never much thought of the holiday before.  She was Russian, first, so American holidays were still somewhat unusual to her.  Second, it had never held any meaning for her.  Thus, the first May after they’d been partnered, Natasha had blithely asked Steve if he’d had any plans for the holiday weekend, barbecues or parties or some such (because that was what it was about, right?).  He’d smiled sadly and shook his head, explaining that he had plans but nothing that exciting.  The next year when the holiday had rolled around again, they’d moved beyond partners, beyond friends even, and had been dating (if she was willing to call it that).  So when he’d explained to her what he’d done last year and what he’d needed to do that year, she’d seen the pain and loneliness in his eyes and immediately offered to come with him.  He’d been touched by that but hadn’t wanted her to.  Something about this seemed sacred, private.  And even though he’d already told her by then that he loved her, he hadn’t been entirely comfortable with sharing this part of his life.  It had hurt a little, but she’d respected it and spent the holiday with Clint and his family instead.

Then SHIELD had collapsed and the Winter Soldier had burst into their lives.  Things had changed very quickly.  The next year when Memorial Day had inevitably come, Steve had been recovering from the serious wounds he’d taken during the battle over the Potomac.  He’d been weak and tender; he’d come so close to dying that it had seriously impacted him, and that was saying something given his strength, resilience, and the healing powers of the serum.  Still, he’d insisted on doing what he always did.  And she’d insisted she come with him.  Almost losing him had changed everything between them, transforming a tender, timid affection into a deep, passionate love, and she had been worried for him.  Worried for his slowly recovering body.  Worried for his damaged heart in the wake of his best friend coming back as a brainwashed assassin working for their worst enemies.  Worried that he was so stubborn that he’d take on more grief without a second thought because that was what was _expected_ of him.  He was alive, and they were all dead.  They’d died in World War II, in Korea, in Vietnam, in countless military operations since.  She and Steve had argued for the first time in a long time.  She’d won, though she realized her victory was mostly rooted in him being too tired and weak to put forth his normal willingness to debate.  She’d lain with him all night that night, holding him close, listening to him breathe, _afraid_ in a way she could never recall feeling before.  Afraid for him, and not just because he’d been so badly injured.  She had been afraid since he’d fallen from the flaming remains of the Insight helicarrier, riddled with bullets and covered in wounds, but this was new and disturbing.  She was realizing she couldn’t stand to see him hurt, especially if he was foolishly hurting himself.  She didn’t understand this, why he put himself through this torture like some sort of ritual penance.  She vowed then and there that he’d never do it again alone.

So she’d gone with him, learning for the first time what he did on Memorial Day.  Seeing it.  Starting to understand it.  Starting to appreciate it.  Now they were married, and she was seven months pregnant with James.  He’d told her yet again that she didn’t need to come with him, that she should rest and enjoy a nice quiet weekend.  Maybe spend some time with Clint and Laura and the kids.  Or with Tony and Pepper.  These free weekends were numbered now, he’d reminded her with a fallacy of a sly smile.  However, she’d refused again.  This time it was soft and loving, cupping his face and kissing his mouth and tenderly reminding him that they were together now so there was nothing he’d ever have to face by himself again.  He’d smiled, deeply touched and so in love, so _thankful_ , and off they went.

They started in DC at the World War II Memorial.  Natasha was always a tad worried they’d be recognized here, especially today of all days.  A national war hero in a national war memorial on a day meant for remembering those who’d served this nation and died for it.  However, nobody noticed them.  They were just another young couple enjoying a beautiful, warm, sunny day and paying their respects.  The same was true at Arlington.  Little did the people surrounding them know, but Steve was _literally_ paying his respects to particular people.  He’d known some of these men, had served with them, fought alongside them.  Colonel Chester Phillips.  James Morita.  Timothy “Dum Dum” Dugan.  Dozens of others.  Men who’d served with the 107th Infantry, who’d served with SSR, who’d died at Normandy or in northern Italy or in Germany.  She was at Steve’s side, listening to him talk about them.  He never spoke about the war, not in any great detail, except for today.  She learned all about how Phillips was a gruff, ornery old man but the best CO under which Steve had ever had the pleasure of serving.  She learned all about the Howling Commandos, Morita’s cutting sarcasm and Dugan’s boisterous quest to sample alcohol everywhere they stopped in Europe.  About James Montgomery Falsworth and his implacable need for everything to always be tip-top.  About Jacques Dernier and his wry sense of humor and Gabe Jones and his unwavering loyalty.  About Bucky Barnes.  The Commandos and the dozens of soldiers who’d aided them in their fight against HYDRA and the Nazis.  Steve stood and saluted graves.  She stood and watched, respecting him all the more.

After DC, they hopped a Stark Industries jet and headed north to New York City.  A car was waiting at Tony’s private hangar at JFK to take them to Brooklyn.  There was another memorial that Steve visited at Cadman Plaza Park.  They stopped there.  Thousands of names of GIs from Brooklyn who’d died in World War II covered the memorial.  His name was there.  And Barnes’.  Neither had been removed, though neither of them had technically “died” for their country anymore.  Steve didn’t spend much time on that, his eyes glazing with something Natasha couldn’t quite read, before moving on.  He talked here, too.  Talked about the boys he’d known from his neighborhood.  From his school and church.  Young men who’d bravely gone off to Europe or the Pacific to fight and who’d never come home.  Good kids and mean kids alike.  Steve talked about them all equally, even if this guy or that guy had been among the bullies who’d tormented him.  Natasha listened again, saying nothing, letting him reminisce and lose himself in the past for just a moment.  It wasn’t until they left and headed for a small cemetery in a well-kept but old park that she finally took his hand.  He led her right to a pair of weathered headstones.  _Joseph Daniel Rogers, 1888-1917.  Sarah Anne Rogers, 1890-1940._   “They would’ve liked you,” Steve said softly, staring down at his parents.

“You think so?” Natasha asked, trying to sound light and teasing even though she was deeply warmed by (and a little afraid of) such an honor.

“Of course,” Steve said with a little smile.  “You make me happy.  My mother always put a lot of stock in that, in doing what’s right and being happy.”

She swept her thumb over his ring finger, feeling the band there and trying to ignore the little jolt of _relief_ in the pit of her belly.  She linked their hands together.  “What was she like?”

“My mother?”  Natasha nodded.  Steve’s eyes gained that distant quality to them again, like he was succumbing to something to which he didn’t often surrender himself.  “She was…  She was beautiful.  Blond hair.  Blue eyes.  She was a small woman, and maybe she looked frail, but she was stronger than anyone.  No matter how bad things got, she always had a way to make it better.  Some candy she’d spent her spare change on down at the grocers.  A new sketchbook.  Taking me down to play on a warm day.  Even just spending some extra time with me, listening to me talk about school when she was exhausted.  She never took anything for herself.  And she loved Buck like another son.  Buck’s ma loved me, too.  It was like having a real family, even if it was really just the two of us.”  Steve sighed.  “It goes without saying, but I’d have died without that.  Without her.”  He swallowed roughly; she could practically see the emotions constricting his throat.  “And I never knew my dad.  He died over in France before I was born.  But I always knew I wanted to be like him.  Be a soldier.”  He spent a moment with his eyes downcast, clearly grieving for things long past.

Natasha wasn’t terribly proficient at dealing with emotions like this, but these months and years she’d spent in love with Steve had taught her a thing or two.  She squeezed his hand gently, drawing his attention, and she smiled.  “Their future,” she said, laying his hand over her stomach.  Over James.

He nodded, smiling, too.  “Their future.”

As they flew out of New York that afternoon, Natasha wondered about things she never had before.  What it would have been like in a different reality, in a different time.  If somehow she could have met his parents.  If they could have met her.  She never had dreams like this, silly, trite fantasies that could never be so had no meaning.  But she imagined them nonetheless, a petite woman with Steve’s bright, compassionate blue eyes and straw-colored hair, a man with Steve’s strong jawline and stronger heart.  What would she say to them, the parents of the man she’d inexplicably come to love?  The grandparents of the baby to whom she would give birth?  _“Thank you,”_ she would say, _“for giving me your son.”_

This last stop on the Memorial Day rounds was sadly a new one.  The Stark Industries jet set down in London, and from there the private town car took them to a cemetery slightly north of the city.  It was evening now, a calm, cool one filled with silvery clouds, peaceful breezes, and tranquility.  Steve took his jacket off and draped it over Natasha’s shoulders as they walked a path even Natasha knew.  She’d been here, after all, when they’d lowered Peggy’s casket in the ground a few months ago.  She’d watched a few tears escape Steve’s pained eyes, watched him bravely hold back the rest until they were in the privacy of their hotel room later that evening.  Now he was alright, at peace with it.

They stood in front of Peggy’s grave.  Her family had opted to bury her with full military honors, and her plot was right next to her husband’s.  They’d stopped to buy flowers on the way, colorful spring tulips, and Natasha crouched to set them in front of her grave.  Of all the honored dead they’d visited today, Peggy was the only one she’d ever met.  Right before she and Steve had married, Peggy had insisted on seeing her.  Natasha had been hesitant; facing Steve’s first love, the love he would have had had he not sacrificed himself to stop HYDRA in 1945, was a daunting prospect, even for someone not as damaged and dark as she was.  Peggy had still somehow been so sharp despite her age and the dementia slowly taking her mind from her.  She’d been the Director of SHIELD for decades.  Surely she’d see Natasha for what she was.

But all she’d done was hold Natasha’s hand with her gnarled and weathered fingers and thank her for taking care of Steve.  She’d told her how happy she was that Steve had finally moved on and fallen in love with someone else.  She’d lectured him over and over again that it was alright to live his life, but he’d never listened.  Peggy had been so relieved and grateful that Natasha had come into his world.  Natasha hadn’t known what to say.

She still didn’t.  Steve let go of her hand.  She watched as he fondly laid his palm on Peggy’s tombstone.  “Hey, Peg.  Was hoping to never have to see you like this today of all days, but here we are.”  He faltered a little.  “Couple more months until the baby’s born.  And Nat’s here.  Everyone’s fine.  Tony says hi.”  He smiled.  “We’re all doing well.  Really well.”  Then he sniffed and his grin loosened sadly.  “That’s not what today’s about, though.  Today’s about…  You know what it’s about.  And even though you didn’t…  Not during the war.  But I don’t think you ever surrendered.  Not even at the end.  You know more about honor and bravery and sacrifice than anyone.  And…  Well, you’re among the finest people with whom I’ve ever had the pleasure of serving.  It didn’t matter who you were, what you were…  You did the best you could.  You fought and never stopped.  You taught me how to do that.  You taught me everything I know about being a good soldier.  And I can’t thank you enough for that.”

Steve’s soft voice died, choked by emotion.  However, he didn’t cry.  He stood back a little and saluted her, just as he had his old war buddies, his comrades, his peers who’d died in combat.  Then he pressed his lips to his palm and touched the stone again.  His hand lingered there a moment before he turned.  He smiled at Natasha, and suddenly he seemed whole again.  “You ready?”

“Go on ahead for a minute.”

He looked confused.  “You sure?”

Natasha nodded.  He hesitated a moment more before walking back to the car, stopping briefly to kiss her cheek.  Natasha waited until he was across the lawn, and then she stepped closer to Peggy’s gravestone.  She’d finally figured out what she needed to tell her.  “Thank you,” she said, “for helping make him who he is.”  She smiled.  “And thank you for convincing him to let all of you go.”

She walked to Steve’s side.  Having come back from his memories, he was waiting for her.  His eyes were clear, and he looked strong and happy in a bittersweet way.  “Want to get some dinner?”  Natasha nodded, wrapping an arm around his waist and leaning into his side as they moved on.  “Baby kicking?”  She nodded again, setting her free hand atop the pregnant swell of her stomach.  She was seeing more and more than this wasn’t some penance that he felt he needed to endure.  It was acknowledging the life he’d led and the people he’d known, of course.  In the end, though, this was about what was ahead, not behind.  It was a day meant to honor the past, to honor those who’d sacrificed everything so that the world could enjoy a bright, bright future.

_Their future._


	13. First Step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This one is for Quicksilver's Banana. :-)

“Come here, James.  Come on.  Come to Daddy.  Come on.”

“He’s never going to come if you keep putting pressure on him like that.  Take it from me.  Look how far I’ve gone in life with _zero_ expectations.”       

Steve glanced at Tony out of the corner of his eye.  The inventor was laying on one of the chaise lounges on the patio of the backyard of their house.  He had his aviators on, feet propped up, beer bottle dangling from his callused fingers over the side of the lounger.  He couldn’t possibly look any lazier; for a man with infinite resources, he was dressed like a slob.  He had on the oldest, most raggedy pair of khaki shorts he owned and a gray t-shirt with some sort of band called Motley Crew on it.  The shirt looked like it was from his college days, worn and washed and worn hundreds of times over.  Steve rolled his eyes and looked back to James, who had pulled himself up on one of the other loungers.  “Come here.  Can you take a step?”

James smiled at him, tiny teeth framed by perfect pink lips, and giggled.  He wobbled, his knees bending and threatening to fail him, and Steve nearly lurched forward to catch him.  Natasha didn’t like him playing on the patio.  The stones were a bit on the hard side, and he’d already scrapped his knees a few times crawling on them and taken a tumble or two.  Since it had finally turned warm a couple of weeks ago, their little family had been outside almost continually.  A long winter stuck in the house and buried in snow was thankfully becoming a distant memory, and Steve was finding he was really enjoying playing with James in the grass, carefully wrestling with him, watching James crawl around in it (even if he did get a little dirty – Natasha must have enjoyed it too because she didn’t much complain about the grass stains), seeing him explore the world for the first time.  The baby hadn’t been crazy about grass at first, scrunching the texture of it in his chubby fists with a doubtful frown on his face, but now he was a big lover of it.  So was Steve, honestly.  He hadn’t grown up with a lot of grass, not in 1920s Brooklyn where everything had been varying shades of brown and gray most of the year.  Having his own house with a huge, nicely landscaped, fenced-in backyard…  He’d seen pictures like that in books and advertisements when he’d been a kid, and he remembered dreaming about it, wondering what it would be like to have a place to play like that.

Now he had one, a big one that was flanked by lush flowerbeds and well-trimmed bushes that Natasha diligently tended (who would have thought Black Widow would not only have such a green thumb but _love_ gardening?) and gorgeous trees with full canopies that provided just enough shade to make it almost always pleasant.  This afternoon was idyllic, with the last cool breaths of spring rapidly warming into the first hot blasts of summer, the still air twinkling with golden pollen.  Everything was brightly colored and vibrant.  Nothing he’d ever imagined came close to this, and he wondered what it would be like tossing a baseball around out here with James, swinging him in the swing set he had a mind to build, putting a tree house in that big, sturdy oak further back.  Watching him play, maybe with their other children eventually (though he and Natasha had never discussed it.  She seemed pretty in love with James and in love with motherhood (and in love with him), so he didn’t think she’d object).  Watching their kids grow up.  Sharing a beer with James someday out here, staring up at the stars and lamenting in that bittersweet way that he’d done with his son something that his own father had never been able to do with him.  Maybe that was all stupid, naïve nonsense, Captain America living the perfect dream with the perfect wife and perfect kids and a perfect backyard, but he dreamed it anyway.  All the things he could do with James.   All the things he could teach him.

You needed to learn to walk before you could run, though.  Hence his efforts now.  “Can you do it?” Steve asked.  He was crouched not more than six inches from James, holding both his arms out.  “Come on.  You can do it, big guy.”

“You’re giving him too much of a safety net, Cap,” Tony declared, taking a swig of his beer.

Steve huffed, looking over his shoulder at his friend.  “Since when are you an expert?”

“On walking?  I should be.  Been doing it every day for forty years.”  Steve gave Tony an exasperated frown.  “What?”

“Been trying to get him to take a step for weeks now,” Steve said.  He turned back to his son, where he was still wobbly and teetering on the edge of the lounger.  James was ten months old, and he’d been moving and going since before he was born.  Squirming and rolling and crawling.  Now he was pulling himself to his feet unassisted, and he had been for a while, clenching onto anything he could reach to help him.  Once upright, he had pretty decent balance, and he could make his way around with amazing alacrity by holding onto things (Natasha wasn’t pleased with the grubby fingerprints all over the walls and the sliding doors of the house).  He could even stand without something to steady himself for a few seconds (thirty or forty sometimes, but it wasn’t like Steve was counting).  All of that meant he was ready to walk.

Steve was excited.  This was a pretty big milestone.  He’d been out on assignment for SHIELD and had missed James’ first word, so he was bound and determined to see his first step.  To see it and announce it and be part of it.  To be a “proud papa”, as Tony always accused him of being.  Of course, Laura had told him when she and Clint had been over with the kids last weekend that he should be careful what he wished for; once a baby got mobile, all bets were off.  He didn’t care.  He wasn’t ashamed to be a proud papa, and he was so proud that he wanted to see his son _run._   He beamed at James encouragingly.  “Come on.”  He waggled his fingers, gesturing James to try.  “Come here, pal.”

“Dada,” James said, smiling.  He let go of the lounger just a tad, angling his little body around like he was going to take a step.  “Dada.”

“That’s right!  Come here.  You can do it.”

James hesitated, smiling more and drooling while he was at it.  Tony shook his head when it was obvious the baby was stubbornly staying put.  “You’ve been at this for, like, ever.  You’re not getting anywhere.  He’s literally not getting anywhere.”

“It takes time.  And patience.”

“It takes the right incentive.  You need to lure him over,” Tony smartly declared.  Steve glanced back at him again, incredulous.  The inventor heaved a long-suffering sigh, sat up with seemingly great effort, and came to crouch beside Steve.  “Here.  See how it’s done.”  He held out his hands, still clasping his bottle.  “C’mere, kiddo.  Come to Uncle Tony.”

“Tell me you’re not giving my son a bottle of beer.”

“Like he knows.  And like it matters.  He inherited all of your other super lame powers.  Not being able to get drunk is probably among them.”  Steve glared (he’d been working on that look – the look of _disapproval_ that only dads have).  “Clint teach you that?  It looks even less convincing on you.”  Steve glared harder.  Tony sighed again, even more long-suffering, and conceded, setting his bottle of beer to the patio stones.  “Fine.  Come on, James.  Come here.”

James shook his head.  Steve had to work hard at hiding his smile.  He didn’t quite succeed.  “Yeah, like you’re an example of success,” Tony muttered.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys.  He jangled them like a toy to draw a cat closer.  “C’mere.  You want these.  They go to a Lamborghini.  A really nice one.  Way nicer than anything your dad will ever buy you.”

“Bribery.  That’s great,” Steve said dryly.

Nevertheless, James reached for the keys.  Tony pulled them back, literally using them like a lure.  He did it a few times.  It was up on there on the dumbest things Steve had ever seen.  James laughed at the little show but then cried when Tony moved them too far away for him to try to reach.  “Okay!  Okay!  Not happy about that.  Maybe you’re not into cars.  How about this?”  He produced his StarkPhone from his shorts.  “Huh?  It’s got _Angry Birds_ on it.”  He thumbed it on, trying to show James the bright colors.  “Super cool, right?  Come here and get it.”  James didn’t hesitate to cry a little when Tony moved the phone out of his reach.  His patience with this game of Uncle Tony’s was wearing and wearing fast.  “Come on, kiddo.  Take a step for Uncle Tony.  You _love_ Uncle Tony.”  James whined.  “One step and it’s yours.”

James very much wanted the phone.  _Very_ much.  So much so that when Tony didn’t outright give it to him after that, he wailed loudly.  His cheeks went red, and the big, fat tears started rolling down them.  Tony blanched.  “Oh, geez,” he moaned.  “Come on, James.  That’s not cool.  Screaming is _not_ cool.  Not logical.  Clearly you have no concept of how bargaining works.”

“Clearly you have no concept of how babies work,” Steve said, fairly certain the racket was going to have Natasha running at them with murder in her eyes, thinking that James had taken another spill on their watch.

Tony groaned and handed James his prize.  Said prize went right into his mouth.  “Ack!  No!  No!”  He tried to get it back, but it was too late now.  James had it in a death grip (which, given whose son he was, was pretty strong), and the corner of the phone’s smooth, black exterior was now dripping in saliva.  “Steven,” Tony said crossly, putting on his own disapproving dad face, “make this right!”

“It’s what you get for thinking bribery works over plain, old encouragement,” Steve chided, trying to gently wrest the phone away from James (but not trying too hard, and therefore not succeeding).

“Cap, hurry! He’s drooling all over it!”

“Well, if you hadn’t–”

“What in the world are you two doing?”  They both turned and stood straight.  Pepper was behind them, bearing the plate of steaks that were supposed to go on the grill (that they’d both managed to forget to turn on).  She appraised them sternly, suspiciously.  “Why does James have your thousand dollar phone in his mouth?”

“Because Steve let him,” Tony said.

“ _You_ let him,” Steve argued.

Pepper gave them a doubtful, knowing grin.  “Alright.”  She glided her way toward them, beautiful in a flowery, summer dress, and crouched where they had been crouching.  She held out her arms.  “James, darling, give Auntie Pepper the phone.”

Steve swore his son turned right toward him, smiled a _snarky_ smile, let go of the lounger, and took _one step_ toward Pepper.

The two men were silent, staring wide-eyed at each other and then at James and then at each other again.  James giggled and toppled right into Pepper’s arms.  She stood with him in her embrace, gently but swiftly coaxing the phone free with nary a peep from the baby.  She handed the slobber-coated device to her husband.  Tony still had his jaw somewhere around his feet.  Pepper covered James’ downy soft hair in a few kisses and gave them both another smile.  This one was downright smug.  “How…”  Steve couldn’t finish.

“Put the steaks on,” Pepper ordered.  Then she turned and headed back into their house.  “Natasha!  James took his first step!”  As she crossed the threshold inside, Natasha could be heard talking excitedly.  She was probably abandoning whatever she was doing in the kitchen, running over to take her baby boy and smother him with proud, proud kisses and go on and on about how amazing he was.

Steve looked at Tony, not sure if he should be annoyed, disappointed, or extremely happy.  “Good move, Stark.”

“What?” Tony said, exasperated.  “Not my fault your son likes my wife better than he likes either of us.”  He sounded as put-off and dejected as Steve felt.

Steve went to the grill and turned it on, thinking about James’ little sneaky smile.  “He’s been spending too much time with you,” he said.

“Hey!  I resent that.  And you have plenty experience being a sass-master yourself, so don’t pin it on me.  And your wife?  Don’t tell me you forgot your birthday a couple of years ago when she bought you a walking cane.”

Steve had forgotten about that.  He’d hung the cane on the coat rack by his door for months, and every time she’d seen it (even after she’d moved in), she’d always ask, _“So how’s the back today, old man?”_ or _“You should really use that more.  Wouldn’t want to fall and break a hip now, would we?”_   He grimaced.  “Yeah…  Thanks for reminding me.”

Tony clasped Steve on the shoulder and handed him his bottle of beer.  “My pleasure, Spangles.  What are friends for?  Now stand aside.  I grill a mean steak.”

Later that evening, after Tony’s mean steaks had been devoured and the dishes had long been done, they sat on the patio, sharing cake and a bottle of wine and talking.  When that was through, Pepper and Natasha kept chatting away while they cleared the dessert plates and the wine glasses.  Tony was roped into helping them.  And Steve was sitting on the lawn and James was crawling around him, playing in the last light of day.  “Dada,” he gurgled.

“What?”

James pushed himself up onto his feet using the low, stone wall that ran the edge of the patio.  Then, much to Steve’s absolute shock, he unceremoniously took not one, not two, but _three_ very bold and steady steps _right to him._

Steve’s heart soared with pride, a ridiculously huge smile splitting his face.  “Wow!  Look at what you did!”  James tumbled the rest of the way toward him, and Steve snatched him up, kissing and hugging and laughing.  He turned over his shoulder, looking around wildly to check if anyone had seen.  No one had.  He was ready to call into the house where Natasha, Pepper, and Tony were, but he didn’t.  Instead he fell onto his back in the soft, sweet grass, snuggling James on top of his chest.  “You know what?”  There was no answer, of course.  James nuzzled sleepily into Steve’s neck.  Steve smiled, smoothing down his hair, and closed his eyes.  “We’ll tell ’em later.”


	14. Lullaby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This one is for abettermirror. The song Steve sings is an old Irish Gaelic lullaby entitled "Seoithín, Seo Hó". I'm not Irish myself, so I apologize if I have this wrong. Enjoy! This is up there in terms of sugary sweetness…

Steve couldn’t carry a tune to save his life.  Apparently the serum had brought every other part of him (and when Natasha said every part, she meant _every_ part) to the very peak of human perfection, but his singing voice had somehow been omitted.  Completely passed over.  And it was strange.  She knew his sense of hearing, of determining and differentiating pitches, was phenomenal.  She knew he could perceive sounds with the utmost clarity and at a far greater distance than a normal person.  He was the furthest from tone deaf as could possibly be.  But singing?  His version of it was more like strangling a cat.

He was completely oblivious to it.  Once they’d gotten to the point in their relationship where they’d been comfortable enough with each other to actually be comfortable _around_ each other, she’d made this sad discovery, that he really couldn’t sing.  They’d been living in DC at the time in his apartment.  She’d started sleeping there, sleeping with him, and one thing had led to another and pretty soon the barracks at the Triskelion was too far a drive after a night at his place enjoying his company.  And it was too dismal to be there, too depressing.  Natasha had never had a home in her life, had never settled anywhere with anyone or had ever even fathomed that she’d desire, let alone _need_ , such a thing.  However, she found herself needing him.  Needing the comfort and security of _his_ home.  She didn’t like to be away from him anymore.  It hard started out as a small, timid realization, and it had morphed into her leaving her toothbrush beside his in the bathroom and him emptying out some drawers in his dresser and making space in his closet for her clothes.  She’d never dreamed such simple things could make her happy, could make her feel like she belonged.  Her phone on top of his on the nightstand.  Her make-up next to his razor.  Her favorite foods in his refrigerator.  Her guns and holsters right alongside his shield.

Her body lying right next to his in his bed.  And her snuggled up in his comforter and breathing in his scent and listening to him sing in the shower.  Steve had never told her, but she knew how much he _loved_ a shower.  It made sense.  Growing up back when he had during the height the Great Depression and before the advent of so many of the conveniences everyone now took for granted, bathing had probably been at best a tepid affair.  Now there was seemingly endless hot water.  His issues with being cold aside, just being able to _enjoy_ that was still such a pleasure to him.  So she’d snooze in his bed or check her phone, and while she was doing that, she’d hear him singing, off-tune, soft at first but then louder like he was confident she was sleeping.  He would sing things from his era, melodies she didn’t recognize.  Things from the last seventy years.  Steve’s taste in music was predictable yet somehow not; he liked a lot of classic rock and older tunes, of course, but he also seemed to be interested in new things, things she wouldn’t expect.  Like pop.  And dubstep, of all things.  Who could imagine that Captain America would like dubstep?  Of course, it hadn’t been love at first listen.  Natasha (and Tony, it seemed, from the volume of movies and music piling up in Steve’s apartment) had taken up the effort of educating and exposing him to pop culture and media.  Not everything was a hit.  Still, more often than not, she’d catch him humming a song she’d played for him or sneak a peek at his phone at the playlist to which he’d been listening on his jog or during his workout and find a new slew of music obviously inspired by her guidance.  And him singing in the shower.  His memory was so good that he could sing an entire song, _exactly word for word_ , that he’d only heard once.  Off-key and horribly flat, but he could sing it verbatim with military precision.  She knew that for a fact.

She’d teased him about how awful he was at singing.  He’d gotten (mostly) fake offended.  And, of course, she’d made endless jokes about it.  If only the world knew that Captain America _wasn’t_ perfect.  Captain America, the worst _American Idol_ contestant in history.  The judges would have to give him a chance out of pity.  People would vote to keep him on just because it’s a solemn, civic duty.  He’d rolled his eyes and sang louder in the shower every morning, just to annoy her as she lounged in his bed and smiled.

Well, she was lying in _their_ bed now, trying to sleep.  Trying and failing.  The baby was _extremely_ busy inside her, twisting and turning and kicking.  James was wide awake and intent on keeping her the same way.  First it had been hiccups, little bubbles and pops that used to tickle and amaze her to no end but now were a tad bothersome.  Whatever calm state the baby had been in earlier that day, the hiccups had dashed it, and now he was very much on the move.  This was happening more and more, that he was getting started just as she was trying to stop.  There was still another month until James was born, and she was already exhausted.

“What’s the matter?” Steve asked from her left as she turned over yet again (not that there was anywhere she could lay that was comfortable).  He was sitting cross-legged beside her, a few field reports and tablet computers strewn around him on the bed.  He was catching up with paperwork for SHIELD, carefully scribing his notes with an actual pencil (she didn’t think she’d ever convince him that writing everything down by hand first was a waste of time when the forms were all computerized now).  He set a folder aside, turning to her.  “Can’t sleep?”

“It’s not me who can’t sleep,” she grumbled.  Another kick nearly sent the air out of her lungs it was so sharp.  Being pregnant with Captain America’s child was an experience, to say the least.  The SHIELD physicians who were caring for her couldn’t tell her if the baby had inherited the super soldier serum.  Even Bruce, who was the world’s foremost expert on Project: Rebirth and Doctor Erskine’s work, wasn’t certain.  But Natasha was convinced.  This child was strong and healthy and incredibly active.  _Incredibly_ active.  Steve didn’t need a whole lot of sleep; living with someone who could go multiple days without a lot of rest, who typically only slept three or four hours a night and only “faked” the rest out of courtesy to those who required more, had taken some acclimation on her part.  However, she could still go to bed when she needed or wanted to and sleep through when Steve got up at the crack of dawn for his jog.  When little James Rogers decided to start his day, mom had to start with him.

That left her exhausted, through and through.

The baby turned over completely.  Steve’s brow furrowed when he saw her stomach _move_.  It was a bit freaky, to be honest.  Natasha had never fathomed being pregnant, and so the idea of _feeling_ another little person doing somersaults inside her…  It was something incredible.  The number of nights they’d just laid there, his hand flat on her belly and hers atop his, feeling and waiting and wondering about what lay ahead of them…  _Incredible._

Right now, though, she just wanted him to quit it and let her rest.

Steve went back to his paperwork for a few minutes, and James settled down enough that Natasha entertained the idea that maybe that was it, that the acrobatics show he’d been intent on performing since dinner was over.  She breathed deeply, finally finding a comfortable spot on her left side, and let her eyes slip shut, drifting to the sound of Steve’s pencil scratching over the SHIELD forms.

Nope.  James kicked her again, kicked her hard.  She gave a short sigh, rolling as much onto her back as flat as she could tolerate and putting her hand over the offending spot the lower left side of her stomach.  There was another kick.  A flutter.  Something that felt like a punch?  If he was this energetic inside her, how would he be outside?  Would he _ever_ sleep?

She tried to doze again in this new position, thinking maybe that would soothe him.  It didn’t.  She grunted in irritation and sat up in defeat.  “What’s wrong?” Steve asked again obliviously, shifting his papers around.

“Your son won’t sleep.”

“Why is he suddenly just my son?”

“Because you’re the one with the super serum that’s keeping him up and therefore keeping me up,” she explained, closing her eyes and leaning back into the headboard tiredly.  “Make him stop.”  That was a plaintive, exhausted moan, a plea for relief that she knew couldn’t be answered.  A want that couldn’t be fulfilled.  But Steve had been fulfilling her wants for years now.  She heard him shifting around, his papers being pushed to the side, and she wearily cracked open an eye.  “What are you doing?”

“Shh,” he said.  He’d crawled somewhat in between her legs.  He slid his hands up the swell of her stomach slowly, almost reverently.

“What in the world are you doing?” she asked again, not in the mood for this.

“Shh.”  He was more insistent this time.  “I want to try something.  Do you trust me?”

“Trust you to do what?”  This was plain crazy.  And dumb.

He smiled slyly, teasingly.  “It involves me singing, and I know how you feel about that.”

Flabbergasted beyond rational comprehension, she just nodded after a mute second, gesturing at her pregnant stomach.  He scooted closer, dropping his face closer to her belly.  “James,” he said, summoning a stern note to his voice.  His Captain America tone, as pretty much everyone put it.  Natasha smiled and rolled her eyes.  “James, this is your father.  Stop bothering your mother and go to sleep.”

Little James Rogers was his mother’s son, too, because he kicked _hard_ right at his father’s left hand almost defiantly.  Despite her weariness and deflating mood, Natasha couldn’t help but chuckle.  “He listens about as well as you do.”

“Like you should talk.”  Steve smoothed his hand over the area.  “It’s bedtime,” he reminded more softly, clearly speaking to the baby.  “You want a lullaby?”  Natasha opened her mouth to complain but Steve gave her a look that silenced her pretty effectively.  “You want Daddy to sing you something?”

For some reason, that made her uncomfortable.  “Steve…” she whined, sitting up further.

“You know, maybe _your_ son would go to sleep if you just settled down,” he teased.  “The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.  Now let me do this.”  She hesitated a moment more, unsure.  But then she followed his advice and settled back down.  She watched as he caressed her belly in silence for a bit, almost like he was imagining holding James.  And then he started humming quietly, a low, gentle sound.  _“Seoithín, seo hó, mo stór é, mo leanbh…”_

“What does that mean?” she whispered down to him, unable to keep a sheepish grin from her lips.

“Shh,” he shushed again, giving her something of an annoyed look.  She flushed and conceded, nodding her acquiescence and slumping gingerly against the headboard.  He started humming again.  Singing again.  _“Seoithín, seo hó, mo stór é, mo leanbh…  Mo sheoid gan cealg, mo chuid gan tsaoil mhór.”_   She didn’t understand the words, and she didn’t recognize the language, but it had to be Gaelic.  His voice was so quiet, low and pleasant, and it reminded her of night, of deep, dark, endless skies and waves rolling against a distant shore.  Gentle and serene, low tones and peaceful swells.  Soothing.  It was beautiful, this lullaby of his, and as she listened, she felt the tension leave her muscles so easily.  She felt her body sink into the pillows and quilts, her mind slip away from the worries of the day and the aches of pregnancy and the silent anxieties in her heart.  There was nothing but his strong hands sweeping in gentle caresses across her stomach, the lulling tenor of his voice, and their child between them.  _“Seothín a leanbh is codail go foill.”_

She hardly even noticed when he stopped singing.  She opened eyes that had slipped shut to find him still tenderly rubbing her belly, his gaze unfocused but teeming with tender grief and love.  He, too, seemed far away.  She reached down to slip her fingers through his hair.  “Your mother?”

He focused on her, blue eyes gaining a familiar glint.  “Yeah.”  He smiled faintly.  “Every night when I was little.  My favorite lullaby.  Put me right to sleep.  First song I ever learned how to sing.”

She could have poked fun at him, maybe something about how it should have been the last or how sappy and sentimental this was, but the thought never even crossed her mind because she’d never heard anything as beautiful as her husband singing their unborn child to sleep.  _Never._   She reached down for him, blinking away the little bit of stinging in her eyes.  He kissed her tummy again before pushing himself up and moving over her, careful not to put his weight on her.  She took his face and brought him in for a sweet kiss.  “Sing it again?”

Steve smiled.  “Sure.”

She closed her eyes as he gathered her in his arms, his hands over her heart and over their son.  His lips pressed to the nape of her neck, his voice a vibration on her skin that went straight to her soul.  She sighed, melting against him, and finally, _finally_ James was quiet as Steve sang them both to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Seoithín, seo hó, mo stór é, mo leanbh…_ – Hush-a-bye, baby, my darling, my child…  
>  _Mo sheoid gan cealg, mo chuid gan tsaoil mhór._ – My flawless jewel, my piece of the world.  
>  _Seothín a leanbh is codail go foill._ – Hush-a-bye, baby, and sleep for now.
> 
> Thanks so much to the wonderful [lbs29](http://lbs29.tumblr.com) for this gorgeous artwork for this chapter! 


	15. No Way to Understand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This one is a sequel-ish thing to chapter 8, "Home Safe". I got a request for Steve getting injured, and you know I'm going to fill it :-). We'll be back to our normal tooth-rotting sweetness next week, but for now, have a great big pile of angst.

“James.”  James was squirming around, jittering with a mixture of excitement and fear.  He didn’t understand what was happening.  How could he?  He was only five.  And Joseph was barely a year old, nothing more than a baby.  How could she expect either of them to understand what she was about to tell them?

But she had to say it.  Natasha couldn’t let her sons go into that room and be blind-sided by how their father looked.  She couldn’t let them see it without them _understanding_.  She set Joseph down, and his thumb immediately went right into his mouth.  She ran her fingers through his red hair, smiling as best as she could manage.  It wasn’t much anymore.  She was worn threadbare, scraped raw and aching.  Her lips shook, and the sob that had been perpetually lodged in her throat for these last few days itched upward again.  Her eyes were burning, teeming with tears that she was so close to letting loose.  But she couldn’t cry.  She couldn’t cry now.  Not now.  Not in front of her sons.  Not when they needed her to be strong.  They all needed her to be strong.

She was so tired, though.  So tired.  This had been nothing short of a nightmare.  SHIELD had located a rather massive nest of HYDRA deep in Eastern Europe, and they’d sent the Avengers to put it out of commission.  It had become obvious minutes into the mission that their intel about the size and strength of HYDRA’s forces had been woefully inadequate.  The team had blundered into a disaster, and by the time they’d realized how serious the situation was, it had been too late to do anything but go forward and fight harder.   They’d charged in, taking out enemies left and right, but there’d been a swarm of them, armed with advanced weaponry and the will to destroy earth’s mightiest heroes.  Outnumbered, the Avengers had fought with everything they had, and in the end they’d eliminated the stronghold, but not without casualties.  _No one_ had escaped unscathed.  Both Tony’s and Rhodey’s armors had been utterly destroyed, Iron Man and War Machine barely clinging to the bruised and battered bodies of their pilots at the end of the skirmish.  Clint had suffered a rather serious concussion, one that had left him unconscious in the medical ward at the Avengers facility for more than twelve hours.  Sam had been shot in the shoulder.  The wound wasn’t overly serious, but it would require some physical therapy to regain the full use of his arm.  Wanda was hurt, hobbled, lost up in herself from the carnage.  Even Thor and Vision had struggled home, wounded and weary.

But Steve had suffered the worst.  He hadn’t made it out of the fort before it had been destroyed.  The HYDRA goons in charge had set the place to self-destruct to protect their secrets, and he’d been trapped down below.  It had taken the rescue teams two hours to dig down through the hundreds of tons concrete, brick, and debris to find him.  Another couple of hours and emergency surgery had been necessary to stabilize him enough to transport him back to the States.  Natasha had spent all of that time at their house in New York, trying hard not to panic, not to cry, not to let the boys (especially James) see that something was terribly wrong.  Laura had come with her kids, and Lila and Cooper had kept James and Joseph occupied as the two women had waited for news.  Little Nathaniel had napped in Joseph’s crib, peacefully unaware of just how serious things were.  That their fathers were wounded, dying maybe, and nobody could tell them it would be okay.

Well, it was going to be okay.  Clint was on the mend.  And, as incredible as it was, so was Steve.  Once they’d made it back to the Avengers facility, he’d spent three days barely clinging to life in the ICU.  Natasha and Bucky had stayed with him every second of it, one trading off for the other when the anguish and exhaustion grew to be too much.  She’d stayed strong during her vigil, holding back her tears, holding herself together, holding her husband’s hand and pleading that he wake up, that he come back to her.  She’d been strong during the times she’d been home with the boys, even though her heart had been back in that hospital room where Bucky was now holding Steve’s hand and crossly reminding him that this wasn’t where he’d die so he needed to _open his eyes_ and _see his family_.  She’d been strong, refusing to succumb to her terror, refusing to falter, donning every impassive mask she’d ever worn as Black Widow, guarding her heart with every lie she could.  _I’m fine.  Don’t worry about me.  Don’t worry at all.  Steve’s strong.  He’ll make it.  I know it._

_Your father’s coming home soon._

How could she make them understand?

The boys hadn’t been permitted in the ICU, and so they’d been shuffled from family to family, to Pepper and Tony one day, Jane and Thor another, and then finally to Clint and Laura once Clint was home and recovering.  It had been rough on them.  James was smart and perceptive; he _knew_ something wasn’t right and that that something involved his dad.  No one would tell him, so he didn’t understand what, but whatever it was, he knew it was making his mother suffer.  Natasha was an excellent liar, something upon which she’d once prided herself, but she couldn’t lie to her son.  No matter how she tried, she couldn’t look James in the eye and make promises she couldn’t keep.  Of the two of them, Steve was the better one at doing that.  She’d simply soldiered on, staying stoic and strong because there’d been no other choice.  _Steve’s fine.  He’ll be okay.  He’ll wake up._

Now James and Joseph were here because Steve had woken up.  He was stable enough to be in a normal hospital room, not hooked up to so many machines, not depending on them to live.  He was still incredibly weak and in a great deal of pain.  He’d suffered massive internal bleeding, some severe burns across his torso and legs, and crushed bones.  He looked…  Natasha closed her eyes and gathered herself.  Clint and Laura had brought the boys here because she’d asked them to, because they needed to understand what had happened.  That their father had gotten hurt, but he was going to be okay.  That he looked bad, but he was alright.  He was healing.  _He was healing…_   She gathered herself, the tattered remains of her composure.  “James, baby.  Look at me.”

James was getting scared.  The excitement over visiting Daddy was rapidly being overrun by the inevitable comprehension that something bad had happened to Daddy.  “Mommy, where’s Daddy?”

“He’s inside,” she assured.  “And he’s alright.”  That sounded a tad fast, a tad forced, a tad desperate to her own ears, so she smiled and tried to keep herself calm and her voice level.  “But when he left a few days ago, he…  He got hurt.  That’s why he’s been here in the hospital.”

James’ eyes filled with tears.  He knew enough about this world to understand what that meant.  “He fell down?”

Natasha couldn’t help a small smile.  She didn’t explain more.  There was no way she could describe HYDRA’s decades-old grudge against Captain America, and she didn’t want to.  Despite who their parents were, James and Joseph led safe, happy, blissfully _ignorant_ lives.  Steve and Natasha, all of the Avengers in fact, worked hard to keep it that way.  The dangers they faced everyday never crept into their little world filled with peace, security, and love.

At least not until now.  This was the first time Steve had been seriously wounded since the battle over the Potomac with the Insight helicarriers.  Sure, there had been the occasional close call, but he’d come home safe from every mission since James had been born.  So had she.  She was only now realizing how lucky they had been, how much they’d taken that good fortune and blind faith for granted.  That made her throat lock up again, and her voice failed her.

Thankfully, she wasn’t alone in this.  She never had been, not with the Avengers rallying around her and every one of them offering her support and care.  Having Bucky there with her now was a comfort she couldn’t do without.  He set his hand atop James’ head.  “James, you know your dad’s Captain America.  And you know he goes out and fights the bad guys so we can all be safe, right?”  James nodded.  “Sometimes when he goes out there to do his job, he gets hurt.  That’s what happened this time.  He got hurt, and he looks like he’s got lots of band-aids on.  Big band-aids.  And he looks real tired and a little sick.”  James’ face scrunched up in dread again.  Bucky was quick to reassure him.  “But you don’t need to worry about anything, okay?  He’s going to be okay.  Your dad’s the strongest guy in the whole wide world.  I’ve known him his whole life, my whole life, and I’ve seen him get through _way worse_ things than this.  So there’s nothing to be scared of.  Okay?”

“Okay,” James said softly, obviously not convinced.  He clung onto Bucky’s leg, burying his face into Bucky’s jeans.

Bucky shared a pained look with Natasha, still comfortingly running his metal fingers through James’ floppy blond hair.  “Now your mom and I are going to take you guys in there to see your dad.  He really wants to see you.”

Joseph toddled back to Natasha.  She lifted him up again, just desperate for _something_ to do to keep her hands busy and her mind occupied and her heart steady.  James looked up at Bucky.  “Really?”

“I’m tellin’ ya, pal, he hasn’t talked about _anything_ else,” Bucky swore with that sweet, soft smile he only ever had for James.  And that was true enough.  The first words out of Steve’s lips when he’d woken up early that morning had been a plea for his family.  Natasha had been there, squeezing his hand and wrist so tight that she could practically feel his pulse through her fingertips, a slow, struggling thing that echoed the beeps of the monitors.  She’d coaxed him to awareness, her heart shuddering in consuming relief when his eyelids finally fluttered open to reveal hazy blue beneath them.  His first word had been her name.  His second whisper had been simply _“Okay?”._   And then he’d asked for the boys.

Bucky was talking, explaining, trying to make James understand.  “But you need to listen to me, kiddo.  Dad’s not feeling well.  He’s not as strong as he normally is, so you have to be real careful around him.  No jumping on him.  No climbing on him.  And you have to be quiet.  Calm and quiet.  Those are the rules, alright?”  James’ eyes welled with wetness again.  He was too smart to be fooled.  “Hey, no crying now.  Dad needs you to be strong, too.”

“Okay, Uncle Buck.”

“Okay.”  Bucky held out his hand, and James took it.  He looked up at Natasha with those big blue eyes of his – Steve’s eyes – and Natasha nearly lost her resolve.  Still, she nodded as confidently as she could, offering an encouraging smile, and shifted Joseph on her hip.  Together they went inside.

It was quiet in the room but bright with the midday sun.  Steve lay in the lone bed.  Somehow his large, muscular frame seemed small and shrunken in the confined space.  A light blanket covered his legs up to his belly.  Natasha knew under it and under the thin hospital gown he wore there were countless bandages covering the worst of his injuries.  Simply put, anyone else in his position would have been killed, burned and buried alive by the debris that had collapsed down into the basement of the HYDRA stronghold.  But Steve was Captain America, and the serum had saved his life.  Now that the worst was past, it was slowly starting to mend his injuries.  This would be a lengthy process according to the doctors; much like when he’d almost died after fighting the Winter Soldier, there was so much damage to correct, so much lost blood to restore and so much tissue to recreate, that it could take weeks for him to recuperate.  Recovering from this was going to be difficult and arduous for him.

But he _would_ recover.  Natasha had to keep reminding herself of that, like her heart was unable to accept what her mind knew for a fact for fear that if she did, this would turn out to be a lie.  A nightmare.  She’d wake up and find Steve back in the ICU, on a ventilator because his lungs were too damaged from breathing fire to function, blood being poured into his body because he’d lost too much for his heart to pump.  She had to _remind_ herself, because when she looked at him now, he was still _so pale_ and haggard that it was all too easy to forget.

Tony was sitting there beside the bed, and when he heard the door open, he turned in his chair.  “Steve,” he said softly, giving Steve’s bandaged hand a gentle squeeze.  “Steve, they’re here.”

“…Nat?”

“Yeah.”  Tony stood.  James hesitated at the door of the room, his eyes as wide as saucers and loaded with fresh tears.  He held Bucky’s hand tighter, looking up at his uncle for confirmation that this was okay.  Natasha’s heart throbbed in misery at seeing how terrified he was.  “You want to come here, James?”  Tony asked, reaching out a hand to the little boy.  He smiled, but it was without its usual flair or confidence.  This was Tony raw and rattled by how close he’d come to losing a man he considered to be among his best friends.  This was Tony frightened of this moment.  Maybe it was too soon.  Maybe they should wait until Steve was stronger, until he _looked_ healthier without the shadow of death creeping about his eyes and his face so sunken and ashen.  Maybe it would be better for everyone if Steve was more capable of interacting and assuring his sons that he was okay.

But they couldn’t wait.  Steve wanted his boys.  His boys wanted him.  Keeping them apart would be crueler than exposing them to this.

James finally gathered the courage to walk quickly from Bucky’s side to Tony’s.  Steve’s bruised face abandoned its perpetual pinched expression of pain, and he managed a smile, his dry, cracked lips shifting gracelessly.  “Hey,” he called weakly to James.  James hid behind Tony’s legs like the man in the bed was a stranger, not the father who played with him and wrestled with him and was teaching him to ride his bike and read to him most every night before bed.  Not the big, strong guy who kissed his mother sweetly and made her laugh and encouraged her to sing.  This man _was_ a stranger.

But Steve wasn’t daunted.  “C’mere,” he whispered.  He laid there patiently, keeping his expression clear from the agony Natasha knew was constantly assailing him without the aid of any analgesics to keep it at bay.  Her heart swelled with pride and fear and love and anger, swelled until she thought it would break.  Steve reached his hand out slowly and waited.

Eventually James’ need for comfort overran his apprehension, and his little face completely collapsed into sobs as he pulled away from Tony’s hand and bolted for his father.  Fear spiked through Natasha; she knew how tender Steve’s side was.  She’d seen the nurses redress the laceration there just that morning, a hideous, gaping hole in his chest.  However, Steve was silent aside from a long, relieved sigh as James clambered up onto the bed and squirmed up his father’s body to his shoulder.  “James, easy,” Tony warned.  “Easy.  Easy!”

“S’alright,” Steve managed in a strangled voice.  Natasha could see how much it hurt him now, now that James was crying with his face pressed into Steve’s shoulder, now that James _couldn’t_ see.  “S’alright.”  She didn’t know if he was soothing James or himself.  Or all of them.  Probably all of them.  He meet her gaze, his still so cloudy with shock and trauma, and weakly lifted his other hand.  Despite the IV lines pulling uncomfortably, he grabbed her arm and tugged her closer.  “It’s okay.”

“Daddy,” Joseph babbled.  He smiled, having no concept of what was happening.

Steve smiled back.  “Hey, little guy.  You c’mere, too.”

Natasha hesitated only a moment more before setting Joseph down on Steve’s bed.  He crawled right over, both his mother and Bucky right there to pull him off in an instant if Steve was in distress.

But Steve was about as far from distress as he could be.  He wrapped his arm around Joseph tucking him to his other shoulder.  He closed his eyes, the tears he’d been trying to hold back for their sakes’ leaking down his temples.  “So glad to see you guys,” he murmured, kissing each of them.  Natasha stepped back, trying to breathe through the misery squeezing her heart like a vise.  The sight of her husband holding their sons, as weak and wounded as he was, was enough to finally crack her resolve.  Her strength was at long last failing her completely.  “You takin’ good care of each other?  And of Mommy?”

“Yeah, but, Daddy, when are you coming home?” James said, his voice muffled by Steve’s shoulder.

“Soon,” Steve promised.  “Soon as I get better.”

Those cracks widened.  Her eyes burned.  “Are you – you, you…  Are you gonna be o-okay?” James whimpered.

“’Course I am,” Steve assured.  “I’ve got lots of people making sure of that.  All your uncles and aunts.  And Mommy, too.  I’m fine.”

“Daddy,” Joseph said again.  “Daddy.  Kisses.”

Steve smothered Joseph’s red hair in kisses as best he could.  It wore him out, clear as day, and he sagged down into the hospital bed.  He closed his eyes again, the meager color he’d had draining from his face.  Natasha could see him relishing in this, drinking it in like a thirsting man at a fountain, _cherishing_ something he’d clearly thought he’d never have again.  His children in his arms.  His wife at his side.  That made it worse, the pain that was exploding upward from her core and ripping fissures in her heart.  Suddenly she couldn’t stand it anymore.  She leaned down, claiming Steve’s mouth in a quick, firm kiss before pressing her lips to his cheeks and then his forehead.  Her hands lingered on the boys, on their little heads burrowed into their father’s familiar warmth, as she choked down a sob she couldn’t contain anymore.  “Nat…” Steve whispered.

“I’ll be right back,” she promised.

Everything was a blur then, her heart pounding and her body shaking in a cold, awful sweat.  She had to get out of the room, because everything was collapsing all around her and she couldn’t be there right then.  Bucky was there.  Tony.  They’d take care of Steve, of the boys, of her family.  She needed a moment away from this, a moment to gather herself, a moment to…

The next thing she knew, she was out in the privacy of the corridor, collapsing into the wall and crying.  Crying hard _._   Like a poison she was purging from her body, all of the pain and fear and anger she’d bottled up inside for the last few days exploded out on each short, shuddering breath.  It was heavy, harsh.  _How could this have happened?_   She was living a nightmare, a war she was too weak to win, a horror she’d never fathomed would actually sweep into their lives like this and nearly destroy them.  The long hours spent at Steve’s side, watching the EKG lines trace across the monitors as the machines kept him alive, watching and praying that they kept coming.  That Steve kept breathing.  That those beeps from the sensors on his chest stayed as steady as the beat of her own heart, as the march of seconds crawling by, one after another.  She’d sat there, whispering solace, begging him to wake up.  She’d sat there _uselessly_ , hating herself for not being at his side to fight with him, to protect him, that he’d been crushed and had essentially _died_ alone and in pain.  She’d faded in her exhaustion, slipping between this moment and the one six years ago when she’d kept the same vigil beside the man she’d only recently come to realize she loved.  Now that man was her husband and the father of her children, and she’d almost lost him _again._ She was so angry.  _How could this have happened?_

“Natasha?”

She stifled her sobs.  “I’m alright, Thor.”

A huge, heavy hand fell onto her shoulder, curling tenderly before turning her around to face him.  He looked troubled, his bearded face sorrowfully frowning.  “Of course you are,” he said.  “And so is he.”  That made the tears burn again.  She was so ashamed to be crying like this, so openly, so _vulnerable._   The last time she had…  She _never_ had.  Even before, when she’d waited to see if Steve would survive the wounds done to him by the Winter Soldier, the stakes hadn’t been so high.  There hadn’t been this breadth of terror, this level of loss.  This despair.  She hadn’t _cried._   “And of course there was always a chance this would happen.  But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

She met his eyes, blue eyes that always reminded her of ice.  His chest was large, firm, and warm as he tugged her into it.  “He could have died.  They could have lost their father,” she whispered into the cloth of his t-shirt.  “How can I expect them to understand that?  How can I expect them to understand when _I don’t understand_ –”

“You cannot,” Thor replied simply.  “There is no way for them to appreciate the dangers in our lives.  Nor can they recognize the depth of the devotion you and Steve have for both them and this world in which they live.  They are but children.  Such things escape even the wisest of adults at times.”  For some reason, that made Natasha smile.  It eased the knot of pain inside her chest.  “One day they will realize that having Captain America for a father and Black Widow for a mother is as incredible an honor as it is a painful sacrifice.”

“That’s so much to ask of them,” she murmured wearily.

“Aye,” Thor agreed, “but they are Steve’s sons.  And yours.  As such you should expect no less.”  She managed something that was close to a rueful laugh.  He chuckled, too, and held her tighter.  “One day, they will understand what it means to be a hero.”

 _One day.  Not today._   That irrationally felt to be such a weight lifted from her.  She sagged into Thor’s steady form, so much bigger and stronger than hers.  So different than Steve, but familiar and similar enough that being embraced, _encompassed_ , like this was a soothing balm.  “Take this moment,” Thor gently implored.  “Cry and unburden your heart.  Then you can gather yourself, go back inside that room, and be the source of comfort and stability for your family you must be.”  She closed her eyes, breathing slowly and deeply.  “And I swear I will tell no one of this.”

She laughed again.  “You better not.”

“Believe me,” he replied, “I have seen the wrath of Black Widow visited upon many who have betrayed you.  It is not a fate I would wish upon anyone, let alone myself.”

She smiled.  “Thank you for this.”

Thor’s hand settled on her back, tender and true.  “Of course.  Even the strongest warrior needs a moment to herself.”


	16. Worthy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I dedicate this chapter to every mom who has ever been stuck with an antsy kid while waiting for their oblivious significant other.

It wasn’t often that Steve and Natasha took James to Stark Tower.  There was just too much for him to get into there.  Equipment.  Supplies.  Sensitive computer pieces.  Countless tools that looked endlessly dangerous.  The mere thought of him stepping into Tony’s workshop was positively horrifying.  There were things in there that were hazardous to Stark’s health, let alone a two year old’s wellbeing.  Inventions in various states of development, with parts (sharp, pointy, deadly-looking parts) all over.  And tons of screws and nuts and things that could easily go into a baby’s mouth.  Elsewhere there was nice, expensive furniture that wouldn’t take well to spilled juice or dropped food or grubby fingers.  Sharp edges of coffee tables.  Steps pretty much everywhere in the penthouse.  Rooms that were both sitting areas _and_ labs.  Additionally, Tony had taken to decorating the Avengers’ headquarters with memorabilia and important personal effects for each hero, so there was that all over, adorning tables and shelves and walls and all within the reach of an inquisitive toddler.  To put it simply, when little James Rogers had come into the world, Tony had put forth _zero_ effort into child-proofing the Tower.

And that was okay.  Tony, Pepper, and Bruce lived there, but the rest of the Avengers had spread to their respective homes, so the Tower was a place for business.  A place to train and plan missions.  A place to keep an eye on the state of the world, to protect it, to ensure the safety of mankind.  The safety of one wandering two year old was paramount, of course, but not the priority here (and rarely in jeopardy anyway since said two year old was hardly around).  So Tony blithely and uncaringly left pieces of Iron Man on the kitchen counter and tools all over the place.  Bruce wasn’t too conscientious about putting his StarkPads with all of his important data and work up where a child couldn’t reach.  James was curious, extremely mobile, and resourceful for his age, with strength and speed (and smarts) enhanced by the super soldier serum, so keeping on top of him in a veritable playground of things he shouldn’t touch and shouldn’t do was a lot of work, particularly for Natasha.  Whenever they went to the Tower, Steve tended to get embroiled in Avengers business, leaving Natasha to keep an eye on their extremely busy child.  She didn’t mind too much; these were Steve’s friends, as crazy as that was.  This was the equivalent of going over to his buddy’s house who was a bachelor, his buddy with all sorts of big boy toys to play with and beer to drink and various sports games to watch (as long as the toys were deadly weapons and the beer was Asgardian mead and those various sports games were live-action sparring matches among gods and super soldiers and deadly assassins).  This was something of an unplanned escape for him.  Natasha had her opportunities to train (and play around) with the team, but when it came to visiting the Tower as a family, she was usually left on James-duty.

Really.  It was okay.

“James, no.  No.  Give me that.”  She sighed as she got up from the couch for the umpteenth time to fetch something from her son’s hands before it went into his mouth or was otherwise destroyed.  She snatched his latest acquisition, some sort of box of electrical parts he’d found who knew where.  James let his prize go with ease, probably because there were plenty of other alluring, interesting, shiny things to grab.  Sure enough, the second Natasha returned the little box to the expensive credenza against the wall of the sitting area, James was already heading over to the other side of the leather couches where a bunch of papers were strewn on a coffee table.  Sighing in frustration, Natasha went after him.  “No.  Let’s not – no, James.  Come on.”  She reached the files before he did, almost in bad enough a mood to let James have at it; whoever left them there deserved to have them dumped all over and left in a disorganized mess.  But then she saw the Stark Industries letterhead and took pity on Pepper, the _only_ one of the Tower’s inhabitants who usually went out of her way to _try_ and clean up after her husband and his “science bro”.  Pepper was married to Tony Stark; she didn’t deserve to have any more mess in her life.  “Let me have that, too.  Let’s not cause Auntie Pepper any trouble.”

James whined as his mother scooped the papers out of the way before he could get at them.  Natasha carefully gathered them up, returned them to their folder, and set that to the credenza, too.  “Okay, you know what?  Let’s sit here on the couch and read a book.  How’s that sound?”  James was already off again, and that was pretty strong evidence of what he thought of that idea.  Natasha sighed in frustration.  She didn’t have the super soldier serum thrumming in her veins, but she was fast in her own right, and she grabbed him before he got away.  “Come on.  We’re going to sit and read something while we wait for your father.”

“No!” James cried.  He was so strong, squirming like crazy.  “Don’t wanna!”

“Well, that’s what we’re doing because I’m tired of chasing you around,” Natasha returned, plunking him down on the expensive sofa.  She picked up his bag that she found herself taking everywhere.  It was full of diapers and books and little toys.  She pulled out his favorite book, well-worn and well read.  “Come on.  Let’s read about Mister–”

“Where’s Daddy?” James asked yet again, already squirming down from the couch.  Natasha sighed, trying to pin him, but it was like wrestling with an octopus.  Some days he positively wore her out, he was so active.  Today was going to be one of those days.  She’d been chasing him around, cleaning up messes and narrowly avoiding disasters, for what felt like an eternity.  “Where’s Daddy?”

“Your father is having ‘bro time’,” she said in exasperation, making very little effort to hide her annoyance.  “And it’s fine.”  _Really._   Although why it was taking over an _hour_ for them to “check out” the new obstacle course Tony had built down in the gym was beyond her.  Steve had promised to be back in a minute.  A minute.  It had been a figure of speech, of course, but no interpretation of “in a minute” equated to “all afternoon” in her book.  James needed a nap, and so did she.  But that would have to wait, it seemed.  _Ugh._ “So while we wait, we’re going to read and color and sit here and not do any more damage.  Mom’s tired.  You want some juice?”  She let go of him to dig in the bag for his sippy cup.  “I have some right–”

Mistake.  “No!” James said again, and now that he was free he hopped down and went right to the credenza to get Pepper’s files.  Natasha wasn’t fast enough this time.  He stretched himself longer than she thought possible, snatched the corner of the folder, yanked, and a downpour of important papers hit the floor.

“James Steven Rogers!” Natasha snapped.

Normally that tone of voice stopped James right in his tracks and led to tears and an apology.  Not today, though.  James was already moving to the _next_ thing while she floundered to gather up the scattered documents.  She was tempted to just let him go and wreak havoc.  If no one was going to put their precious stuff away or help her with a rambunctious toddler, well, then a mess was what they deserved.  But she didn’t.  _Patience._   Being a mother had taught her more about that than any training in the Red Room, any field exercise for SHIELD, any mission where waiting for the opportune moment had been the most important skill.  _Patience.  Patience.  Patience._

It was a good thing the elevator dinged just then and the men returned.  “–that is why I keep saying that the balance is key.  It’s all in the swing,” Thor said as the group stepped onto the floor.

James spotted his father – his father who stood there in his nicer clothes all rumpled and sweaty and unkempt with his shield slung over his shoulder because of course they had to _try_ the new obstacle course – and he predictably ran.  “Daddy!”

Steve crouched and caught him, swinging him up with enough force that she’d be worried if it was anyone else doing it.  “Hey, big guy!  Whatcha been–”  Then he spotted his wife, cleaning up the impressive disarray of papers and the fact that _everything_ in the room had been moved to the credenza where James couldn’t reach it.  “What happened?”

Natasha gritted her teeth.  “Oh, nothing.  He’s been no trouble at all.  We’ve been having a blast while you’ve been playing.”

Maybe she’d laid it on a little thick.  Maybe.  But she’d never get tired of the power she had over one of the one’s most powerful men.  Steve blanched just a little, the healthy flush of physical exertion fading from his cheeks in the face of his wife’s wrath.  “Yeah, you’re in trouble,” Tony quipped, stepping around Steve to go help Natasha with the papers.  “Just like I’m going to be in trouble if this stuff gets ruined.”

“What is it?” Clint asked as he plunked down on the couch, just as sweaty and disheveled as Steve.

“Who knows.  Something important.”  Natasha let Tony finish up with the mess, standing and setting her hands to her hips.  She wanted to collapse right next to Clint.  She loved her son (and her husband) to no end, more than she ever thought it was possible to love anyone, but they were a lot of work.  She wasn’t just tired.  She was _exhausted._

But Thor came over and swiped the spot, setting his hammer on the coffee table with its distinctive _clink_ before he sat.  And Steve took the other couch, sprawling after he propped his shield against the side of the sofa.  They must have worked themselves hard in that hour if both he and Thor were this sweaty and winded.

Still, that was no excuse to be rude.  They’d left her no place to sit.  And James bounced on his father’s chest a couple of times before jumping down.  Predictably, he went right back to the coffee table.  And, predictably, he reached his little hand right for the strap that came off of Mjölnir’s pommel.  And, even more predictably, the assembled men were oblivious and doing absolutely nothing to stop him.  “That last pass on the course…” Steve started, looking over at Tony.  “Can you make the drones more powerful?”

“Uh, sure.  What, it wasn’t enough of a challenge, Cap?”

“No, no.  It was good.  Just… a little burst at the end there would be nice.”

“Yeah, when all the rest of us are passin’ out these two are just getting started.”

“Well, I am certain Stark can make a – what is it called?  A kiddie course for you, Barton.”

“Hardy har har.”

“Oh my God!” Natasha cried as James finally got his hand around the strap.  He tugged, and the hammer tipped over with a loud clunk, banging into the table before falling to the floor.  Natasha darted among the men to get James before he hurt himself.  He was trying to lug the hammer across the carpet, trying and almost succeeding.  It wasn’t the unconquerable, magical weight of Mjölnir that was causing him trouble.  It was the _actual_ , _physical_ weight.  Natasha set her jaw and reached for James, but Thor grabbed him first, laughing and lifting him.  James giggled.

“Did he just…”  Tony’s eyes were wide as saucers.  Then he sank down on the couch next to Steve since Steve had lurched to his feet and conveniently made room.  The inventor shook his head dumbly.  “Well, that figures.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Clint said dubiously.  “This pint-sized terror is ‘worthy’–”  He used actual air quotations.  “–but the rest of us aren’t.”  This had been something of a sore spot for him for a while now.

“Still think it’s a party trick?” Steve teased lightly, though he seemed equal parts shocked and proud.

Clint gave a grunt and folded his army across his chest.  “He’s two.  What could he have possibly done in his little life to warrant being worthy of the hammer?”

“Mjölnir judges worthiness based upon the mettle of the spirit, not the merits of one’s accomplishments,” Thor explained smartly.  He was surprised, but he was doing a fairly remarkable job of hiding it.  James giggled again as Thor tickled him.  He had both his hands in his mouth and was slobbering all over them.  “Besides, James’ father is worthy, so therefore by extension he is as well.”  They’d found that out a few months ago during a battle that had gone sour.  The situation had turned dire when Thor had become disarmed during an explosion.  Steve had plucked Mjölnir out of the wreckage of the building that had collapsed and thrown it at the robot that had nearly killed them.  Steve and Thor had been friends before, but they’d only grown closer since, like the two of them were members of some exclusive, secret club.  Apparently now James was a member, too, and they both couldn’t look any _prouder._

Natasha had about had it.  “Well, he could have hurt himself,” she said sternly.  That fairly effectively silenced the men.  She grabbed the diaper bag and slung it over her shoulder.  Then she lifted Steve’s shield.  “And I think, no, I’m _completely satisfied_ that the obstacle course is just fine.  It’s awesome how I can just _know_ that without having even seen it since I spent the last, I don’t know, _hour_ trying to keep my son out of everything laying around here and everyone’s hair.  And waiting.  I _love_ waiting.”  She tossed the shield at Steve.  It thudded into his chest with a dull rattle.  He caught it, looking appropriately mortified.  “Steven, we’re leaving.  Thor.”  Without thinking, she knelt, wrapped her hand around Mjölnir’s pommel, and _picked it up_ just like that.  She offered it to its owner.  “I’ll trade you your baby for mine.”

Thor just _stared_ at her.  Shocked beyond speech, beyond comprehension.  It was a good look on him.  In fact, she was pretty sure it was a good look on _all_ of them.  Eventually Thor reached out and took the hammer from her, staring at her like he didn’t know whether to be reverent or terrified, tipping James closer so he could scramble across the small distance to his mother’s embrace.  James wrapped his little arms around Natasha’s neck as she settled him on her hip.  Then she looked at her husband, who hadn’t moved, slack-faced, wide-eyed, and making no effort to do much more than stare at her incredulously as well.  “You coming, Rogers?  Pick your jaw up off the floor.”  She smiled sweetly.  “Unless you need me to do that, too.”

“Uh…” Steve stammered.

“Move it then.”  As she kissed James’ cheek and walked away, she marveled at the rush of heat and strength that seemed to go straight to her core.  She wasn’t even surprised, although she supposed she should have been.  She’d never had an occasion to touch the hammer before, let alone try to lift it.  And she’d never imagined she’d be able to.  Not in her wildest dreams would _Black Widow_ be good enough to wield Thor’s hammer.  _Worthiness by extension,_ she thought.

Or maybe it was just the mettle of her own spirit.

She smiled.  Maybe.


	17. Like Father, Like Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I can't believe I actually wrote this. Seriously. Someone stop me. :-) This one's for ice326 and inspired by Chris Evans being ridiculously adorable.

“James, eat your vegetables.”

James didn’t seem terribly inclined to do that.  Steve could hardly blame him.  Their little family had settled down for a nice dinner around their dinette table.  Natasha had cooked (which she always did on the days she was home), and she’d made some delicious breaded chicken with spaghetti and a large bowl of mixed vegetables.  Carrots.  Peas.  Green beans.  Corn.  All diced into equally sized cubes and spheres and freshly steamed.  Crisp and healthy.  And not a hit with James, who’d had an aversion to green foods since he’d been old enough to try them.  Even as a baby, pureed peas and green beans had been met with vehement repulsion.  Again, Steve could hardly blame him.  He’d tasted that stuff once when he’d been trying to spoon feed it to James when he’d been six or seven months old.  It was positively foul.  Other baby food wasn’t so bad, but the green ones?  Yuck.

But Natasha was a real stickler for things like eating healthy.  She didn’t like James to have a lot of sweets.  She was a big one for at least trying everything on one’s plate.  And she loved cooking.  That had been one of the many things that had surprised Steve as they’d gotten closer years ago.  Who would have thought that Black Widow would so enjoy making meals for her family?  She did, really and truly, and she liked making those meals nutritious and well-rounded.  In addition to preparing a ridiculous supply of proteins and carbohydrates to feed her husband’s super serum enhanced metabolism, there was always a vegetable of some sort.  Salad or asparagus or broccoli.  Lightly sautéed peppers.  Celery and eggplant.  Cabbage.  Mixed veggies painstakingly peeled and cut.  Natasha _loved_ vegetables.

Steve wished he could say the same of himself.  And he knew he _should_ eat them more.  But he’d grown up in a time where there hadn’t exactly been a variety or an excess of food like there was today.  A lot of time things hadn’t been fresh (or had even been on their way to rotting), but his mother and Bucky’s mother had just made do with what they’d had.  He’d ended up eating _a lot_ of the same stuff over and over again when he’d been a kid.  It had always been a touch on the bland side because they hadn’t had the extra money for spices or other things to add unessential flair to their meals.  He’d spent his youth living on oatmeal, cabbage soup, beans, potatoes, canned tomatoes, mayonnaise sandwiches, and occasionally a tough hunk of meat on special occasions.  As he’d told Sam once, _“we used to boil everything”_.  That had been life, and it had been so common place that he’d never really realized what he was missing.

Then he’d woken up in 2012 to a world _full_ of food.  Exotic food.  Food he’d never heard of, never imagined existed.  Things from all over the world right at his fingertips.  _Anything_ he’d wanted, delivered to him.  Coming from rationing and MREs and fairly serious poverty, it was a little overwhelming.  Trying different foods was among the first things he’d done.  Feeding his metabolism was a big project most days, and so needless to say, he’d been hungry and adventurous.  And after experimenting with all that, well, he’d realized he wasn’t a huge fan of vegetables.  Or fruit, really.  He’d forced himself to like them when there’d been no choice.  Now there was a choice, and he knew better.  This wasn’t to say he only _liked_ junk food (the mere concept _of_ junk food was still a tad crazy to him), but he liked it.  And he enjoyed sweets.  Back in the day, chocolate had been a luxury.  Now it was essential.  He’d had yet to meet a chocolate anything that he didn’t like.

Frankly, if it wasn’t for the fact that it was physically impossible for him to put on weight other than muscle mass, he probably would (well, maybe.  He had something of an equally unhealthy obsession with working out as he did with less than healthy snacks).  And Natasha didn’t approve.  Not that was he addicted to sweets or chips or what have you, but every time she caught him ordering pizza for him and James rather than cooking when she wasn’t there, he got _the look_.  And every time he had another piece of cake at a party or an extra handful of Doritos at a BBQ or she caught him with the other guys eating something they should not be eating or having one too many beers (it wasn’t like he could get drunk!), he got _the look._   Put him with the others, with Thor and Bucky in particular, and they all reinforced one another’s “bad eating habits”.  It was something of a joke among the guys, that Natasha didn’t care for how he ate (and it wasn’t just Natasha.  Pepper was on Tony’s case just as much, if not more).  But Steve always got the added joy of being reminded that his habits weren’t setting a good example for James.

It looked like tonight was going to be one of those nights.  The pile of vegetables on his plate was pretty much untouched.  And a smaller but no less untouched pile was on James’ little plate.  He’d eaten all of his spaghetti and most of the chicken Natasha had cut up for him, but the veggies were mostly there for his entertainment at this point.  His little plastic fork was rolling them around, stabbing them, playing with them, but not eating them.  Steve thought that was way too much of a tell because Natasha had noticed right away that nothing was actually getting into his tummy.  “James.”  Natasha shook her head.  “Did you hear me?  You need to eat your vegetables.”

James was three now.  Three, as Steve and Natasha were discovering, was much worse than two.  Two year-olds mostly did not possess the verbal acumen to talk back.  Three year-olds, on the other hands…  And if stubbornness was an Olympic sport, James had scored the gold medal weeks ago.  “I don’t wike ’em.”

“You might if you tried them,” Natasha said in a gentler voice.

“I don’t.  I don’t wike them.”  That was another recent development.  James had been mispronouncing his “l”’s and his “w”’s for a while now, but for whatever reason, it had become rather prominent of late, so much so that his uncles (Tony, in particular) had started teasing Steve about it.  “I don’t wike it.”

“James,” Natasha said more sternly.  “Vegetables are good for you.  They keep you healthy.  They’re loaded with vitamins and other things your body needs to grow.”  She held her son’s gaze firmly, but her mouth turned in a smile.  “Don’t you want to get big and strong like Daddy?”

 _Don’t drag me into this._ James looked at Steve.  Steve tried to give him a little shake of his head – as best a sign of _stick together_ as he could – but the subtlety was lost on a toddler.  “Daddy didn’t eat his.  Daddy doesn’t wike ’em, either.”

Natasha turned to Steve, too.  She coolly cocked an eyebrow as if to remind him what he stood to lose if he didn’t pick the appropriate side in this debate.  Steve swallowed thickly.  “James, you need to eat your vegetables.”

“But you didn’t eat yours, Daddy,” James protested.

This was going down only one path.  Steve disliked peas enough to attempt to weasel out of it.  “Doesn’t matter.  Your mom wants you to eat them, so you should eat them.”  She was staring right at him.  There it was.  _The look_.  Unwavering.  It wasn’t quite a glare.  It wasn’t quite a scowl, either.  Disapproval, but not at all demeaning.  It just read _you should know better._   It was a look Natasha never used to have.  She’d always had her fair share of powerful expressions, of course.  Black Widow was known around the world for her icy impassiveness in which the _lack_ of expression was an expression in and of itself (and a downright terrifying one).  Back when they’d been partners and then lovers and even when they’d gotten married, she’d donned that often when she hadn’t been pleased with him, this cool, stern, _stoic_ thing that left him wondering if she was about to kiss him or kill him.  Since James had been born and she’d become a mother, she’d moved on from that for the most part and had instead perfected this _frown_.  _The look._   And Steve was its most common target.  “She’s right,” he hastily added.   “Vegetables are good for you.”

“But I don’t wike ’em,” James whined.

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve said again more firmly.  “Do as your mom says.”

James folded his little arms over his chest and huffed.  Now _that_ was definitely an expression he’d inherited from Natasha.  “No,” he said emphatically.

A stubborn streak a mile wide.  Steve sighed.  “Come on, big guy.  That’s not being nice.”

“Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like,” Natasha reminded, “and that includes maybe eating things we don’t think taste good.  But they do taste good.  You might end up liking it.”

James shook his head, puffing out his lower lip.  “I won’t.  I won’t wike it.”

Natasha wasn’t deterred.  A stubborn streak just as wide.  “At least try them.”

_“No.”_

“James…” Steve said in warning.

“If Daddy eats his, will you eat yours?” Natasha asked.

 _Ugh._   Roped into it.  This was Natasha’s go-to tactic of late.  Negotiate.  Use Steve as an example or leverage or the enforcer.  _If Daddy takes you, will you go?  If Daddy gives you a bath, will you cooperate?  If Daddy picks up, will you help him?_ James glanced at Steve’s pile of diced vegetables.  Steve hadn’t realized it until just then but he’d subconsciously been spreading them around on his plate, too.  And he was realizing he didn’t just dislike peas.  That was too gentle a term.  He _hated_ peas.  Carrots and green beans he could tolerate, but peas?  He’d refused to eat them back when they’d had _nothing_ to eat and his mother had chastised him to no end about being grateful for food no matter what.  He’d been a little older than James then, and while she hadn’t been looking, he’d hidden the peas in his napkin until he could safely throw them out without her knowing.  He would have rather starved than eat peas.

But he wouldn’t rather face his wife’s wrath.  And there was absolutely no sense in even trying to pick the peas out.  Not with both of them watching him.  So he sighed, tried to smile for his son’s sake, stuck his fork into the veggies, and shoveled some into his mouth.  _Grin and bear it.  Grin and bear it.  I’ve faced Nazis and aliens and evil robots.  I can make myself swallow some peas._

He tried not to chew.  In fact, he was pretty sure he downed most of them whole.  His shoulders jerked with a little shudder, a visceral reaction because, _Lord, he really did hate peas,_ before he got control of himself.  And then he donned what he thought was a decent grin and looked at James.  “There.  See?  Delicious.”

Natasha rolled her eyes at him.  “Alright, baby.  It’s your turn.”

Even at his tender age, James Rogers knew something about integrity.  He picked out all the vegetables he wanted (not the peas) and put them carefully on his little fork.  And then he stuffed them into his mouth, chewed, and slowed them down with a shudder of his own.  “All done,” he declared matter-of-factly.

Natasha looked proud.  She reached over and rubbed Steve’s arm while petting James’ hair.  “There, you two.  That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

 _You’ll pay for this later, Romanoff._   “It was great,” he said for James’ benefit.  “Mom’s right.  Vegetables are the best.”

“I don’t wike ’em,” James grumbled.

“You don’t have to,” Natasha assured.  “The important thing is you tried.”  She gave him a sunny smile, which he returned.  “And it’s ‘like’, honey.  Say it.  ‘Like’.”  She rolled the “l” so he could hear it.  “‘Like’.”

“Wike.”

“Good try, baby.”

A few minutes later, James was done with dinner.  He ran off to play with his cars in the living room, leaving his parents to finish off their meal.  “It wouldn’t kill you to pretend,” she commented when their son was safely out of earshot.  “At least, I don’t think it would.  You looked like you kinda threw up in your mouth there a little.”

“I didn’t,” he protested, just a tad affronted.  “You know I’m no good at lying.  And I hate peas.”

“I can tell.”

“How come I don’t get an ‘A’ for effort?”

“Because you’re thirty.  He’s three.”

“Not nice.”  He picked his plate up, leaned over, and used his fork to transfer the rest of his vegetables to her plate.  She gave him a sour look that was really, really fake.  Ridiculously fake.  He shook his head and said, “It’s not my fault the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

The corner of her mouth turned up into a sly smile as she speared a bunch of peas with her fork.  “Wike father, wike son?”

He grinned.  “Something wike that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the wonderful [lbs29](http://lbs29.tumblr.com) for the wonderful artwork for this chapter!


	18. Father's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there! Especially happy Father's Day to my husband and the wonderful father of my precious children :-).
> 
> This one also answers a prompt from LindsKat2487for a sports game. Enjoy, guys, and thanks for reading!

Steve had to admit this was a pretty nice Father’s Day present.  And he didn’t quite know how Natasha (well, this was from James according to his Father’s Day card) had managed it.  He suspected Tony had been involved; how else could she have even gotten access, let alone paid for, seats like these?  They were practically on the field, right behind the Yankees bullpen.  You couldn’t get any closer.  “Wow,” he breathed.  It was a beautiful day, positively gorgeous, with blue skies and fluffy white clouds and a warm, June sun.  The field was brightly green, immaculately cut, and the diamond was neat and perfect.  Crowds were filtering into the stadium for the afternoon’s game.  He’d never seen anything quite like this, quite this incredible.  He looked down at James at his side.  “Whaddya think, big guy?”

James was probably still too little to really realize what any of this was.  He was just barely five, having had his birthday a few weeks ago.  He basically got that baseball was a game with two teams, and he basically understood that his father and his Uncles Bucky and Clint (particularly Uncle Bucky) could get rather animated about which of those two teams won and which lost.  But he didn’t appreciate the nostalgic value in this, that _this_ took Steve way back to 1941, to sitting in the cheapest seats at Ebbets Field with Bucky at his side, of cool beers and warm days and the stench of cigar smoke and the salty tang of summer sweat.  This took Steve back to listening to games on the radio in their old apartment, rooting for the Dodgers the way they rooted for each other.  It took Steve back to the corner shops, to Bucky and the other guys in the neighborhood having a Coke and chatting about Kiki Cuyler and Bob Feller and the up and coming Ted Williams, about the tyranny of the Yankees as they dominated the league.  Baseball was called America’s greatest pastime for a reason, and that hadn’t changed since his time.  The rules were the same.  The way the game was played was the same.  And he still loved it.  The constancy of that was soothing.

James couldn’t understand that, but Natasha had.  Even if she had no love for baseball, she knew what it meant to Steve.  So the two tickets she’d given Steve that morning in a Father’s Day card lovingly crafted and signed by their son had been bestowed with a smile and the knowledge of how important this was.  This was Steve’s first time taking his son to a ball game.  James was a little young, but Steve’s heart had filled with pride and excitement all the same.  Still, his concerns had been quick to rear their heads.  He didn’t feel quite right leaving Joseph behind, even though he was just a year old and _way_ too little to participate.  And he’d been reticent about leaving Natasha alone with him for the afternoon, no matter how much he wanted to go.  That wasn’t because he was afraid she couldn’t handle that; far from it, in fact.  But he was leaving in a day or two to lead the Avengers in exterminating a nest of HYDRA SHIELD had found in Eastern Europe.  The operation had sprung up suddenly.  Spending a day away from half his family when he could potentially be gone for a few days didn’t sit well with him.  But Natasha had convinced him.  And she’d taken care of the details, like the matter of Captain America essentially sitting right on the field at one of the most popular stadiums in the country.  She had told him not to worry about that, that no one would notice, especially not the cameramen filming the game, and she’d made that assurance with a certain twinkle in her eye that suggested she (and probably Tony) had ensured the cooperation of the stadium staff.  

And, of course, there was the little matter that Steve hated the Yankees.  He’d forget that for today, though.  He’d even put on a Yankees hat (he told himself he’d swear on a stack later that it was part of his “disguise”.  Captain America was a well-known and die-hard Dodgers fan, so this was a perfect misdirection).  He shook James’ shoulder gently because his son was too awestruck to answer.  “Huh?  Pretty neat, huh?”

“It’s really big, Daddy,” James said in response, squinting in the midday sun.  Steve put the kids sized hat he bought James on his head (another disguise, of course, and practical for blocking the sun, not because he was raising a Yankees fan here) before looking out over the field of the new stadium again.  James was right.  It was really big, bigger than Ebbets Field had been by a lot (twenty thousand people or so, if what he’d read was right).  He’d made some bold remarks off and on over the last few years about the Yankees being so snooty that they’d had to have this “flagship” of stadiums, but here and now and aglow with love for the game and love for his child, Steve had to admit this was quite nice.

He and James found their specific seats.  The games was starting soon, so the players in their distinctive white and navy pinstripe uniforms were coming out to warm up.  Despite this having been James’ “gift” to him, James himself hadn’t seemed overly interested in their outing when they’d driven here.  Granted, he loved spending time with his daddy, but baseball itself didn’t excite him, and when Steve had explained they were going to be sitting and watching a game for a few hours, his exuberance had gone down even further.  Steve would have to work on that.  This seemed like a good way to start, because James was watching the pitchers practice in the bullpen, watching the outfielders toss the ball around, staring wide-eyed at the enormity of it all.  “What’re they doin’, Daddy?”

“Practicing,” he explained.

“So they can get better?”

Steve smiled.  “So they can get ready.”

“Kinda like you do with Uncle Bucky and Uncle Sam and Uncle Tony?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you go to work.  Mama says it’s because you need to be ready in case the world needs you.”

That took Steve aback a little.  It always did when James made a connection between something so seemingly mundane as this and the life he led outside of their home and family.  His secret alter-ego, secret, really, to only his children.  He’d never cared much about keeping his identity private; the army had made him into a symbol during the war, and even though he didn’t care much for his story being used as propaganda and the attention over that made him uncomfortable, he had to admit that that symbol inspired people.  It had been built into something beyond what he would have ever wanted, something he wasn’t sure he’d earned let alone deserved, but he shouldered it nonetheless.  For his son, though, he didn’t want to be seen as Captain America.  James had rarely seen his shield, rarely seen the uniform, _never_ really seen what Steve and Natasha did outside of their home.  For his son, he just wanted to be, well, _him._ “Probably not quite like that.”

“What’s it like then?”

Steve tried to play dumb.  “What’s what like?”

“Being Cap’n America.”

He didn’t know how to answer that, so he didn’t.  Thankfully the game was getting started, and James got distracted.  They stood for the national anthem, hands and hats over their hearts.  The Yankees took the field, and first batter came up to bat to the roar of the crowd.  The first pitch was thrown.  When they sat back down, James was suddenly a mile a minute with questions.  What the rules were.  Who all the men were.  What the positions meant.  Why they were standing where they were standing.  How come there was only one player from the other team on the field at a time and why wasn’t that unfair.  He asked and asked, and Steve answered them all.  Some of it probably didn’t make much sense to him, but James was so enamored with actually being there that Steve didn’t think he cared.  And Steve didn’t care that James kept asking the same questions over and over again.  He kept answering them, all save a few.  And those were all about one topic.  That topic wasn’t baseball.  “How’d you get to be Cap’n America, Daddy?”  Or, “Uncle Bucky says you’re a hero.  What’s a hero?”  Or, “Is it hard bein’ Cap’n America?”  Or, “Uncle Buck said you and him were soldiers.  What’s mean?  Like soldiers in a war?”  Or, “What do you do when you go to work, Daddy?  Can I come?”  These were all natural things for a little boy to be asking his father (maybe even more natural to be asking on Father’s Day), but Steve just didn’t know how to respond to them.  It wasn’t as though he didn’t _like_ being Captain America or that he wasn’t proud of what he’d accomplished.  He’d accepted being a soldier and hero and the leader of the Avengers long ago, and, despite the danger and the evil he regularly faced, he _enjoyed_ doing right in the world.  Granted, that came at a cost, and that was surely factoring into why he didn’t want to tell James about it.  Where this was headed was inevitable, and part of him, the part that was terrified every single time he had to leave his wife and his children behind to fight, didn’t want to go there.

Thankfully, James was only five, so he didn’t understand this either.  And there were plenty of things to distract him.  Steve bought him a hot dog, some soda, and some candy.  They popped peanuts into their mouths and smiled and laughed.  Halfway through the fourth inning (the Yankees were positively destroying their opponents, so the game was getting a little pointless), he pulled James on his lap.  Being so close to the bullpen, they could see all the star players.  One of them even waved at James as he took practice swings in the on-deck circle.  Steve never thought he’d see the day where he actually cheered for the Yankees, but he did, loud and long and along with the sold-out Father’s Day crowd.  James cheered, too, giddy with excitement for every homerun, every good defensive play, every fun moment.  The special Father’s Day camera roamed the stands during the commercial breaks in the television coverage, landing on dads with their sons and daughters, all beaming and waving enthusiastically.  Even though Steve knew it wasn’t a good idea, part of him wished that camera would land on him and James.  He knew James would get a kick out of it; he’d been watching all the other people on it in awe, not quite piecing together that those laughing, ecstatic, shocked faces were in the crowd around them.  But, more than that, Steve wanted everyone to see him and his son, _Steve and James Rogers_.  And he wanted everyone to know how proud he was of James, how happy he was, how much he loved him.

Steve and James Rogers.  Not Captain America and Captain America’s son.

During the bottom of the eighth inning, things started to slow down.  It was pretty obvious the Yankees had this one in the bag, and the afternoon was wearing.  “How come people are leaving?”  James hadn’t gone back to his seat after Steve had offered up his lap, and he was still perched on Steve’s thigh.

Steve pulled the brim of his hat a little lower.  It was getting later in the afternoon, and the sun was in his eyes.  “Games almost over, and it’s not too likely the other team can win at this point.”

“How come?”

“The score’s ten to two.”  James looked at him quizzically.  Steve gestured to the brightly lit displays and scoreboards over center field.  “The Yankees have ten.  That’s much bigger than two, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So the other team doesn’t stand much of a chance at winning, not unless you believe in miracles.”

James looked at him pointedly.  “Do you believe in miracles, Daddy?”

Again, that took Steve aback.  And it took him a moment to come up with an answer, not because he didn’t know what he wanted to say but simply to overcome his surprise and actually say it.  “’Course I do.  It was a miracle that brought your mom and me together.”

James seemed satisfied with that (or maybe he was just getting tired) because he didn’t ask anything more about it.  Instead he settled back against Steve’s chest, and Steve wrapped an arm around his little body, sliding his large hand around the back of James’ head.  Still, even though James didn’t press him further, he couldn’t stop thinking about that.  Miracles.  A miracle that he’d received the serum.  A miracle that he’d been found in the ice.  A miracle that he’d been a part of the Avengers Initiative and had met Natasha.  A miracle that Fury had assigned them to work together.  That they’d fallen in love.  That she’d let him into her heart.  That she’d taught him how to live in this world.  That they’d gotten married.  That she’d gotten pregnant with James despite all the damage the Red Room had done to her body.  James was a miracle.  So was Joseph.

And so was the fact the sick, skinny, frail Steve Rogers was here at Yankee Stadium on Father’s Day with his son falling asleep in his chest.

He spent the last inning of the game simply enjoying it, enjoying everything, breathing the warm summer air and listening to the announcer and the familiar sounds of bats cracking against balls and people cheering and songs old and new.  When it was over, he lifted James’ sleeping form against his shoulder and gathered up their trash and the things he’d bought for him, a pennant for his room (it was absolutely blasphemous to hang the Yankees in his son’s room like that, but he’d get over it) and his hat and a little Yankees teddy bear.  He joined the remains of the crowd in heading to the parking lot.  He strapped James in his seat, James who never stirred, sleeping with a smile on his face and a flush of warm contentment on his cheeks.  Then Steve drove them home.

It took some time, fighting stadium traffic and then traffic in general, to get out of the Bronx and back across the river and upstate.  James slept most the time, and Steve drove in silence.  A couple of hours later, they were pulling into their driveway.  James ran excitedly into the house, bearing his load of souvenirs.  Natasha was in the middle of making dinner but stopped to hug James and listen to his excited babbling.  She gave Steve a kiss, and then Steve bent to scoop Joseph up off the kitchen floor.  He’d been playing with his toys, but he’d toddled right over the second he’d seen his father, balling his little fists in Steve’s jeans to pull himself up.  “Hey, little guy,” he said, relieved to be holding him for reasons he didn’t quite understand.  “Missed you.”

“Daddy,” Joseph said, his hands sticky with something as he grabbed Steve’s cheeks.  “Daddy.”

He took the boys outside to play for a while as Natasha finished up dinner.  As nice as the game had been, this was even more so.  The evening sun was warm, and the air was sweet.  James screeched and ran around like a wild thing, launching himself at Steve where he sat in the grass.  They wrestled, Joseph clambering on top of the pile, and Steve pretended to be crushed under them before smothering them both while they screamed and laughed.  After that, they had dinner, and James went on more and more about homeruns and grand slams and foul balls and how cool it would have been if they’d been able to catch one but none of the players had hit any in their direction.  Natasha smiled at James’ antics as she feed Joseph in his high chair.  And after that, it was bed time.  Both boys were bathed and in their pajamas in short order.  Steve gave Joseph his bottle and rocked him to sleep, and the baby went right down, exhausted from playing so much.  He kissed his red hair before laying him in his crib, gathering his blankets and stuffed animals around him.

He ran into Natasha in the hallway.  “James is waiting for you,” she said as she headed in Joseph’s room to kiss him goodnight.

Steve nodded before knocking on James’ door.  James was in bed, his Yankees bear under his arm and his Yankees pennant already hanging over his bed and his new baseball cap on his nightstand.  “Did you like your Father’s Day present?” James asked once Steve was at his bedside.

“I _loved_ it,” Steve said, smoothing James’ slightly damp hair back.  “Did _you_ like it?”

James smiled.  “Yeah.  It was cool.  I like baseball now.”

“Good.”

“Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

James’ smile turned sleepier.  “When I grow up, can I be Cap’n America, too?”

Steve’s heart swelled with so much pride.  But there was a touch of pain there, too.  And regret.  “You can be whatever you want to be.”

“I wanna be like you,” James said.  “Cap’n America.”

Steve couldn’t help the stinging in his eyes.  “You do, huh?”

“Yeah.  Love you, Daddy.”

Steve watched him fall asleep, lingering much longer than necessary, sweeping his fingers through James hair for quite a while before he could bring himself to leave.

Later, he was sitting on their bed and waiting for Natasha to come, and when she did, she immediately noticed something wasn’t right.  “What’s the matter?  You’ve been kinda quiet.”  She smiled teasingly.  “Did having to watch the Yankees win bother you that much?”

He shook himself free of his worries.  Or tried to.  It was harder than it should have been.  “James told me he wants to be Captain America.”  Natasha paused in changing into her pajamas to look at him.  She came away from the dresser to stand in between in his legs.  Her soft hands cupped his jaw, lifting his face a bit.  He sighed.  “He wants to be like me.  I guess I should have seen that coming.  I thought the worst part of all of this was having to go out and fight and leave you guys behind knowing that…”  He shook his head.  “I don’t know if that’s something I want for my son.  It’s not something he should ever have to face.  Believe me, if I could find a way to put evil to rest forever, I would, but I don’t know–”

“Shh.” She rested her fingers against his lips.  “He doesn’t know what Captain America is.”

“He’ll figure it out.  He kept askin’, and I didn’t know what to say.  I didn’t–”

“Shh,” she said again.  “He only knows what _you_ are.  So of course he wants to be like you.  You’re _his_ hero.  You’re his dad.”  She smiled knowingly before kissing him tenderly.  “You think too much.”

He grunted a wry laugh.  “I know.”  And she was right.  There was no reason to worry about this or feel bad or uneasy about it.  James didn’t want to be Captain America because Captain America was a hero or a symbol or a soldier or an Avenger.  He wanted to be Captain America because Captain America was his dad.  And that was it.

Natasha kissed him again, more insistently.  “Still got one more present for you today.”

“Yeah?” he murmured against her lips.  “Might be too tired.”

She laughed.  “Since when?”  Steve chuckled and lay back on the bed, taking her with him.  She snuggled against his chest, wrapping herself around him before settling her face into the crook of his neck where she pressed tender kisses.  “Happy Father’s Day, Steve.”

“Thanks, Nat.  I love you.”

“You’re welcome.  I love you, too.”


	19. Happy Anniversary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Well, in honor of my 10th anniversary with my wonderful husband, here's this pile of unrepentant fluff. Enjoy!

Natasha hadn’t planned this.  Not any part of it.  It was wholly unexpected, something she’d never fathomed happening.  She was still reeling from it, in fact, reeling and not entirely capable of wrapping her mind around it.  For a few days now, she hadn’t known what to do with what she knew.  Her emotions had run the gamut of being shocked to being excited to being a bit angry to being absolutely terrified.  Someone had once told her that life had a way of throwing curve balls at you and expecting you to catch them.  Well, this was a serious curve ball, about as serious as falling in love with and marrying Captain America.  Unlike her relationship with Steve, though, which had grown slowly over the course of a couple of years and had allowed her to ease into it, this was pretty abrupt.  Everything had changed with one moment, and she didn’t know what to do with that.

So, in a turn of sentimental events that was completely unlike her, she’d decided to give that moment to him.  Or recreate it.  Share it.  It was their anniversary, their _first_ anniversary, and this was just complete coincidence.  Natasha wasn’t a believer in fate; her life as an assassin and spy had hardened her, taught her that one made her own fortunes through her own strength, determination, and wiles.  But this…  Well, it seemed like someone was setting up a gift for her to give the man she loved that he would never forget.

They hadn’t really made any plans, despite how supposedly monumental this occasion was.  Natasha didn’t typically care for things like this, even after being with Steve for more than two years.  She wasn’t interested in flowers or candies or presents, didn’t like a fuss, didn’t care for romantic evenings and mushy declarations of undying love.  It had taken some doing on Steve’s part for them to get married in the first place.  As if he’d been planning a hard-fought victory in a long war, he’d been tactical about his proposal.  They’d lived together first, even though that probably hadn’t sat well with Steve’s old-fashioned sensibilities.  He’d been very careful about being obvious with their relationship, even among other SHIELD agents and the Avengers.  He’d respected her reticence in being “official” while slowly nudging her closer to doing just that.  After their first public date at the Maria Stark Foundation Gala, she’d known in her heart where this had been going even if she hadn’t been able to admit it to herself, let alone him.  He’d been so patient, despite how clear it had been that he’d wanted more and to move toward that faster.  And he’d been loving, gently supportive, easing her into a life with him before he’d asked the question so that her inevitable doubts and dismay would naturally appear groundless without him having to show her or tell her that.  He was always like that, tenderly and nearly silently _showing_ her that her insecurities weren’t valid.  She was Black Widow, but that didn’t matter to him.  In his book, she should be proud that she’d overcome her dark past to be a good person, a hero, and an Avenger.  She was more than what he wanted, exactly what he needed.  Therefore, when he’d finally proposed not long after SHIELD had collapsed, she actually hadn’t had to think about it much.  The answer had come easily.

And now they were here a year later, and it just seemed too _perfect_ not to do this tonight.  Even if she didn’t care much for sentimentality, she knew Steve did.  Steve had a sweet, soft heart when it came to things like this.  This was a side of him that had been untouched by the war, by SHIELD, by HYDRA, by everything bad that had happened to him or hurt him in his life.  So going through with her impromptu anniversary plants would be worth doing for his reaction alone.

So she’d made certain to get home before him.  He was busy working on equipment plans with the rest of the Avengers, so she’d gone to the store to purchase the ingredients for a surprise dinner.  She was planning on making salad and a pasta, and she’d bought a couple of nice steaks that he could grill (it was November and chilly and drizzly, but she knew he’d be willing to stand outside cooking).  She’d also acquired the makings for chocolate cake.  Steve had something of a sweet tooth, and he liked it when she cooked and baked for him (that was awfully domestic, but it was true).  She’d never made this cake recipe before; she was still learning, after all, but she was finding she wasn’t simply good at it.  She _liked_ it.  And she liked cooking for him.  She adored it, in fact.  It was all ridiculously domestic, but considering what she was giving him tonight, it was more than appropriate.

She was having a hard time focusing on the task at hand, though.  She had the recipe right in front of her and everything she needed: cocoa, milk, eggs, and flour, bowls and a baking pan, chocolate chips and chocolate syrup.  Despite being extremely well organized, she couldn’t concentrate.  Her mind was wandering to places she wasn’t quite ready to go.  Thoughts she’d never imagined having were spinning around in her head until she felt like _she_ was spinning herself.  She was actually anxious, actually nervous, and even though she _knew_ he’d be happy about this, she was still apprehensive.  She had butterflies in her stomach, of all things.  She hadn’t even felt like this when they’d gotten married in a small ceremony with only the Avengers present a year ago.  They’d been ready for that, though.  They’d never anticipated this.  Never even talked about it.  But he wouldn’t be anything _but_ thrilled.

Right?

She almost spilled her bowl of cake batter because she’d been so caught up in her thoughts.  Her hands were actually shaking – she _never_ shook like this – as she steadied the bowl and herself.  “Get a grip,” she whispered, disgusted at herself.  She’d been feeling so incredibly _weird_ lately, not like herself at all, and knowing why wasn’t making it more tolerable.  Her skin felt like it was constantly tingling, her heart beating just a bit faster, her stomach tied into knots, her thoughts scattered.  _Focus._   She went back to beating the batter smooth.  The unknown aspect of it all was among the more disturbing things, she supposed.  But, then, that was what it was all about, right?  Facing the unknown together?  Building a life _together_?  She was trying to be more excited than worried, more happy than daunted by the sheer level of change looming before her.  She coveted control, thrived on her ability to be aloof, to maintain a certain level of distance from everyone else in order to do her job.  Marrying Steve had lessened some of that distance with someone.  This?  This would close it completely.  She didn’t know if she was ready for that, so she needed him to be.  He would be.

_Right?_

“Yes,” she answered herself, and she went back to making her cake.

An hour and a half later, she was done.  The cake was cooling, making the entirety of their home smell like warm, gooey chocolate.  The salad was ready.  The pasta was almost ready.  The table was set.  And she was waiting for him.

She heard the front door open at six o’clock, exactly when he’d promised.  Keys hit the front hallway table with a jangle.  “Nat?”

“In here,” she called.  He came into the kitchen.  “Don’t bother taking your coat off.  I bought steaks to grill.”

He pulled his arm out from behind him and revealed red roses.  Many of them.  His eyes widened when he appraised the setting for two at their kitchen table and the array of delicious food she’d prepared.  “I thought you said you didn’t want to do anything.”

“I thought I told you I didn’t want anything,” she returned, secretly very much touched at the flowers.  She walked up to him, kissing him deeply and taking the bouquet.

“It’s not much.  Just a little something.  Roses for a rose.”

“That’s awful,” she teased.

He grinned, pleased with himself.  “Did you honestly think I wasn’t going to get you at least flowers for our first anniversary?  I was going to say you don’t know me at all, but you made chocolate cake.”

“They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

He smiled.  “I had no idea you’d be this much of a good cook when I married you.  Hidden perk.”

“Trade,” she ordered, handing him the plate of meat and taking the flowers.  “Grill.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  He still stuck a finger into the bowl of chocolate frosting she’d made, sucking it into his mouth with a sly smile.  She rolled her eyes and swatted him on the butt as he went out to the patio to cook.  Then she smiled and ran her fingertips over the velvety smooth rose petals, breathing in the faint scent of them when he wasn’t looking.  She put them in a vase and finished up in the kitchen.

Not long after that, they were sitting at the table, eating.  Quiet and serious Steve Rogers, she’d learned, was hardly that quiet or serious when he was comfortable around someone.  He talked about the team, the equipment Tony was developing, the way things were coming together, their debates and jokes and the good time he’d had with them that afternoon in spite of what they were together to do.  After the fall of SHIELD, the Avengers had reformed and now they were the only people standing between the world and its enemies.  He seemed pretty excited about that.  She was supposed to come by Stark Tower tomorrow to test out some things for Tony.  And then he mentioned that he’d spent some time with Barnes that day, which she wasn’t as pleased with (though she did a perfect job of disguising that).  Bucky had recently come back into their lives, and while he was steadily recovering from the brainwashing to which HYDRA had subjected him, she was having a bit of hard time accepting his presence.  He was no longer the Winter Soldier.  Steve seemed absolutely certain he was Bucky Barnes, the same Bucky Barnes who’d been his best friend since childhood.  Natasha thought was he someone else entirely, someone who was a combination of both, someone uncertain and wracked with guilt for what he’d done to the world and Steve in particular.  She knew this because she’d been there herself, not now but years ago when she’d emerged from the programming of the Red Room.  She was trying adamantly to be understanding and sympathetic given that, but it was hard because when she closed her eyes she still sometimes saw Steve in the ICU after the battle with the Insight helicarriers, fighting for his life.  It was going to take her some time to make her peace with that, but slowly but surely, it was happening.

And that was neither here nor there right now.  “What’s the matter?”  Steve’s question drew her from her thoughts, and she realized she’d been staring at her half eaten plate of pasta and steak.  “Not hungry?”

She wasn’t, really, but not for the reasons he probably thought.  “I’m fine,” she assured quickly.

His brow crinkled in concern.  “You don’t seem fine.  Something happen today?”

“What?  Oh.  No.”

“You sure?”

“Rogers.”

He raised his hands in acquiescence.  “Okay, just wondering.  You seem nervous about something is all.  Not like you.”  How in the world could he read her so well?  _Because you taught him to.  Get a grip._ He looked concerned for a moment.  “Oh, gosh.  I messed up, didn’t I.  Were you expecting a real gift?  Was I supposed to read into it when you told me you didn’t want anything?”

“No,” she said.

“Did you want to go out?  It’s not too late–”

“Steve, no,” she said more firmly, feeling more uncertain of her footing than she had in a long time.  She stood and took his empty plate and hers and headed into the kitchen.  She could feel him staring after her, feeling his eyes fill with worry and confusion.  She still struggled with this sometimes, with expressing her own feelings, with being open and vulnerable without being defensive.  She stood at the sink, letting the water run as she rinsed the plates, gathering herself.  Suddenly she wasn’t sure about doing this.  Sure she had to tell him sometime, but she wasn’t the best at things like this.  Maybe this wasn’t the right way to go about it.  Maybe…

No.  She drew a deep breath, grabbed the card she’d bought at the grocery store and the cake, and headed back to the table.  Steve was still watching her, not entirely certain she was being truthful with him.  He knew her so well now that it was impossible to hide her anxieties from him anymore.  Her heart was pounding.  _Pounding_.  And every nerve in her body was tingling again.  But she smiled and set the cake on the table.  “Happy anniversary,” she said brightly.

He looked even more confused.  “Okay?”

“Here.”  She handed him the card.  He took it, face fractured with half a smile and half a wince like he still wasn’t sure if he’d done something wrong.  The envelope was white.  She hadn’t written anything on it.  “Open it.”

“Okay, I’m feeling like a class-A jerk here.  If you got me something–”

_“Open it.”_

He chewed his lower lip a moment more before raising his eyebrows in surrender and ripping apart the seal.  He pulled out the card.  It was nothing spectacular; honestly, she couldn’t stand the sappy drivel on the array of cards at the store.  She’d picked a simple one, and all it said was “Happy Anniversary” on the front in silver script.  She couldn’t breathe when he finally opened it.  His expression broke when he stared at what was inside.  Was he unhappy?  God, she couldn’t tell.  Normally she could read him so well, his proverbial heart right on his sleeve, and now she couldn’t tell.  “What is this?” he asked after an endless moment.

Was that some sort of accusation in his tone?  Were his eyes sharp with confusion or with dismay?  How come she couldn’t tell?  What was he asking?

Then logic trumped emotion.  “It’s an ultrasound picture.”

He didn’t get it.  Of course he wouldn’t.  Why would he?  It was entirely possible that in the last three years of living in this time he’d never had an occasion to see one or even learn what one was.  What it meant.  That there was technology available to see something like this.  “An ultrasound?  What’s that?”

“Here.  I’ll show you.”  Now she couldn’t help her smile, her excitement, and she came around the table.  She pushed her way gently onto his lap, so he moved back a little to make room.  She slid one arm around his neck and then pointed at the lighter gray circle in the center of the small, glossy image.  “This is the head.”

“The head?”

“Uh-huh.  And this…”  She moved down the gray blob.  “This is the body.”

“Um…”

“These here are the arms.  And the legs.”

He _still_ didn’t get it.  All her fear faded momentarily in tender amusement.  “Nat, what in the world am I looking at here?”

The words came easy, despite all her trepidation earlier.  “A baby.”

 _He still didn’t get it._   She waited a second or two that lasted an eternity as he glanced between her and the picture he was holding, blue eyes muddled.  But, sure as the sun, he started to realize what she was saying.  “A…  A baby?”

“Yeah,” she whispered.

Those blue eyes widened, and his face went lax.  “You mean… _our_ baby?”  She couldn’t manage any words, so she nodded.  “You’re pregnant?”  She nodded again.  He frowned.  “I thought you said you couldn’t…”

God, he was upset about it.  They’d never used protection because she’d _thought_ she was sterile.  And now he was angry, thinking she’d lied to him or trapped him or…  _Get a grip._   She couldn’t get a grip.  “I don’t know!” she admitted.  She skittered off his lap, suddenly terrified beyond measure.  It was irrational, of course, because underneath his shock she _knew_ there was excitement.  But her fear that he would reject this was somehow bigger than logic.  “I don’t know.  They told me I couldn’t, but…  I haven’t been feeling… _right_ , I guess… the last couple of weeks, so I went to see Bruce.  He couldn’t explain it to me, so I can’t explain it to you.  I can’t even explain it to myself.”  Steve didn’t seem to process that.  His eyes went back to the picture.  “If I’d known this was a possibility, I would have said something.  Believe me, I would’ve.  But I guess the Red Room never anticipated one of their agents marrying…  Well…”

A moment of silence came.  Natasha could hardly make herself breathe through it.  Her heart felt to be still in her chest, and time stopped ticking.  She could only watch him as he looked at the picture of the baby, _their_ baby, a surprise and a miracle and something _neither_ of them had ever expected…  “Steve, please, say something.”  He didn’t.  He was just _staring_ at the ultrasound picture with a blank expression on his face.  It was like he couldn’t look away.  Or speak.  Or _think_.  “Steve.”  She couldn’t stand this anymore.  Couldn’t wait.  “Steve, I’m sor–”

The rest of her words were trapped in her mouth because he was up and out of his chair and kissing her hard.  Natasha grunted in surprise as he lifted her against him, his lips firm and hot against hers.  He kissed her breathless, and then he laughed.  “We’re having a baby?” he said, more winded and flushed than she’d ever seen (and she’d seen him accomplish some pretty amazing feats of physical exertion).  “A baby?  A baby.  A baby!”

She couldn’t help a little laugh.  “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

 _“Yeah._ ”

He laughed again, his eyes wet and a smile bigger than she’d ever imagined on his face and his eyes brighter than the sun.  He set her to the table, nearly knocking her cake off.  “The cake!” she cried, giggling, barely catching it with one hand as he planted kisses all over her face.

“Who cares,” he murmured, cupping her face with one hand.  “This is the best present by far.”

Her heart swelled so much she thought it would burst.  She took his hand, looking down as she wove their fingers together.  Then she laid his palm over her stomach where their baby was.  _Their baby._   “Happy anniversary.”

Steve smiled and kissed her again.  “ _Very_ happy anniversary.”


	20. The Biggest Heroes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Happy Independence Day to everyone who celebrates it! And happy birthday to Captain America :-). In honor of Steve being, well, _awesome_ , here's some of him being a good daddy. Enjoy!

“Dad, how come your birthday is the Fourth of July?”

Steve had to work hard not to sigh.  He didn’t know who it was – Tony or Clint most likely, but he wouldn’t rule out Bucky or Sam – who’d turned James onto the fact that it was weird that his birthday was July 4th of all days, but whoever had done it was going to be paying for it later.  James had done _nothing_ but ask him about it since they’d arrived at Stark Tower for the annual joint “Steve’s birthday/Independence Day Bash” (as Tony had christened it).  The first dozen times his ten year old son had asked him about it had been one thing.  But the last _hundred_ times (okay, that was probably an exaggeration, but seriously it felt like a hundred times) were starting to get just a tiny bit bothersome.  There really wasn’t a good answer.  There never had been, and there never would be.  It was just one of those things.

Right.  Just one of those things that _everyone_ joked about.  “It’s because God likes irony,” Tony said as he downed a beer.  He was dressed in khaki shorts and a faded, grungy t-shirt that had Uncle Sam across its front sternly proclaiming “I WANT YOU” with a finger shoved at whomever was unfortunate enough to be in front of him for good measure.  This was the one day of the whole year where Tony went “cheap” for tradition’s sake; instead of the finest food imaginable, it was hot dogs and brats and burgers on the grill (the thought of Thor managing the grill was still pretty terrifying, and this was always the one time where he insisted on doing it also for tradition’s sake).  In addition, on the tables that had been pulled out onto the terrace of the Tower, there was an array of pasta and potato salads, a platter full of vegetables, numerous bowls of chips, a massive collection of fresh fruit, more sides than was needed to feed an army, and cake.  A cake that proudly proclaimed “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, USA!”, the patriotic letters surrounded by sugar fireworks and red, white, and blue icing, and below that in a much smaller font there was: “and Steve”.  The afterthought.  It was the same variation every year.  This joke never seemed to wear out its welcome.

At least, not to Tony.  Ever since he had discovered that Steve’s birthday was _coincidentally_ July 4 th, it had been a source of endless entertainment for him.  At first it had been good-natured ribbing, easy jokes and light jabs.  From there, it had gotten more elaborate, from custom-designed fireworks that exploded into Steve’s shield or his face (he’d been told it was supposed to be his face, anyway – it hadn’t looked like him at all), to gifting Steve with a new combat suit that could shoot fireworks from his boots like the rocket’s red glare (Steve had never worn it), to reenacting his own version of the signing of the Declaration of Independence with a special surprise guest of Captain America cheering the Founding Fathers on (that had been _beyond_ awful), to airing every one of his old war bonds films (how in the world had he gotten hold of those?), to hiring a band to play some sort of godawful amalgamation of the national anthem, “Happy Birthday”, and “The Star-Spangled Man”.  It was all terrible.  Absolutely embarrassing and complete cringe-worthy.  Steve had grinned and bared it for Tony’s sake, Tony who loved a good-natured (usually) joke at other people’s expenses.  Thankfully, he’d gotten tired of his own antics over the years, and now it was just a joke cake and a real birthday present (a new Harley, for crying out loud – that was pretty amazing).

But Steve should have known Tony would never quite let it go.  “What does that mean, Dad?” James asked, turning from his uncle to his father.  “That God likes irony?”

“It means God’s got a sense of humor, squirt,” Bucky said, tipping his own bottle of beer to his lips.  He was smiling, his messy brown hair gathered in a bun.  The setting sun was glinting off his metal arm.  He wore a tank top and an equally well-worn pair of khaki shorts.  It had been unreasonably hot all day, and now that the sun was almost gone, the first breath of relief was coming in the form of a few wisps of a cooler breeze.  He smiled at Steve and winked.  “’Cause Captain America’s born on the Fourth of July.”

“Captain America was not born on the Fourth of July,” Steve said, long-suffering and pinning his best friend with a mock glare.

James looked confused.  He turned back to his father.  “So does that mean your birthday changed when you turned into Captain America?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint said.  He smirked.  “Because it’s ridiculous that the man destined to become Captain America could _coincidentally_ be born today.  The army couldn’t have _possibly_ lucked out that much.  Propaganda that good doesn’t just happen.  Somebody set this up.  It’s a cover-up.”

Steve gave Clint a withering look, too, and Clint just smiled.  “Are you guys ever going to get over this?  I’ve had to listen to it for years.  _Years._ ”

Clint shook his head emphatically.  “Nope.  I’m never going to believe it because it can’t be the real story.  Stuff like that doesn’t just happen.”

“And I’m never going to get over it,” Tony replied cheekily.  “Never, Cap.  With liberty and justice for all.”

“Steve,” Laura called from one of the nicely decorated tables behind them.  She was cutting up Nathaniel’s hot dog for him (little Nate was going through some kind of phase where he didn’t like the texture of bread).  “If you didn’t react to their teasing, they’d probably stop.”  Lord, if that didn’t sound like something she’d said to Cooper or Lila once or twice.

“No, we wouldn’t,” Tony declared.  “This is like a gift to me, a gift that keeps on giving.  It never gets old.  Even though you do.  What is this now, birthday one hundred and five?”

Ah, yes.  Tony’s next favorite topic about which to rib him constantly on his birthday.  “One hundred and four,” Steve corrected.  At this point he had a few choice words for Tony.  Natasha would box his ears if she heard him saying them.  He didn’t like bad language, but he was willing to break his own rules for Stark.

“Dad.  Dad.”  James tugged on his hand.  “Dad, how can you be that old?  And did you really change your birthday when you turned into Captain America?”

“No,” Bucky said, “I can vouch for the fact that his birthday’s always been today.”  He smiled slyly, and Steve just knew he couldn’t resist jumping on the bandwagon.  _Who am I kidding?  He was on the bandwagon before there_ was _a bandwagon._ “But I’m pretty sure that all that stuff about him gettin’ picked for Captain America ’cause he was a good guy was a bunch of malarkey.  They just weeded out all of the volunteers who didn’t pass the patriotic pre-screening.  Your dad’s always been _super_ patriotic.  You don’t get to be the country’s biggest hero of all time without bein’ that.  Stupid enough to enlist five times.  And born on July 4 th.  He was pretty much the only option.”

“Buck…” Steve said, wincing.

“Your dad bleeds red, white, _and_ blue,” Tony teased.  “Literally.”

“Is that true, Uncle Buck?” James asked.

“No, Jamie,” Joseph said crossly.  He sat behind them on one of the chaise lounges.  His face was dark, locked up in a scowl, and it had been like that all day, ever since he’d given Steve his birthday present (a brand new pair of baseball mitts for both of them).  He’d wanted to play right away, but they’d had to leave to drive down to the city for the party.  Joseph did what he always did when he was upset: he internalized it.  He’d been on the verge of tears, stubbornly and silently holding them back while their family drove with James excitedly and unendingly chatting.  He bottled it up and held it in and pretended like nothing was bothering him when something clearly was.

Joseph was six now, but unlike James, who’d always been big and tall, Joseph was a scrawny stick of a thing with wild, perpetually messy red hair and Natasha’s eyes.  He was completely healthy of course (much to Steve’s immense relief), just oddly small for his age considering who his father was.  It was entirely possible, they supposed, that he’d simply inherited his mother’s stature.  And unlike James who was all lively fire and inquisitive questions and boundless energy and vibrant enthusiasm (Steve didn’t quite know where he got that.  In truth, it was more like Bucky than it was either of his parents), Joseph was a quieter child.  He always had been.  He was soft-spoken, sensitive, serious, and shy.  He wasn’t so stubborn, fairly complacent and accepting of almost anything, and he didn’t speak up much, not unless he thought something was unjust or someone was in trouble.  At the end of the year conference a week ago, Joseph’s kindergarten teacher had told Steve and Natasha that she was concerned because he was introverted and didn’t have many friends.  Natasha was concerned, too, but Steve wasn’t so much.  In truth, Joseph reminded him of _himself_ at his age far more than James ever did.  Not that he hadn’t caused his fair share (or more, if Bucky was to be believed) of trouble or hadn’t been happy or mischievous.  But that he’d been… less confident of himself back then.  It had taken his friendship with Bucky to make him feel comfortable enough in his own skin to _be_ himself, to run as best he could and laugh loudly without fear of being picked on and play as hard as was possible.  Both of the boys had inherited the serum from him, but James _looked_ so much like him and Joseph didn’t that it was hard to believe they were brothers sometimes.

Like now.  Joseph had done nothing but brood all evening while James had laughed and played with his uncles.  He’d sat and read and ignored everyone.  And he’d had it with his brother’s antics.  “You can’t bleed blue,” he said.  And he went back to his book.

James was also more gullible.  “Yes, you can.  Look, Joe.  Look at your arm.  Your veins are all blue.  See?”  He raised his wrist as evidence.

“They just look blue ’cause of your skin.  You can’t bleed blue.  Or white.  That’s stupid.”  If possible, he scowled harder.  “Uncle Tony’s a liar.”

“Hey,” Steve said sharply, turning around to give Joseph a warning look.  “That’s not nice.”

Joseph actually glared at him.  He _definitely_ inherited that from Natasha.  “They’re not being nice to you,” he argued.

The assembled Avengers looked horrified for a moment.  Even Steve was surprised.  Tony’s face shattered in shame.  “Joey, we’re just teasing,” he said.

Clint was quick to add, “Yeah, we’re kidding around.  You know we love your dad.”

Joseph hardly looked up, but Steve thought he saw the glittering of tears in his eyes.  Before he could say anything, though, his younger son was scrambling up to his feet, his book tucked to his chest and head down.  He walked quickly back towards where Natasha stood talking with Pepper on the other side of the terrace.

Tony came over, still appearing immensely horrified.  “Steve, I…  I’m sorry.  You know I don’t mean anything by it.  Right?  You know that?”

Steve swallowed a strange knot in his throat.  “Yeah, Tony.  ’Course I do.”

James looked distressed.  Bucky did a little, as well, but he donned a quick and easy smile.  “Come on, kiddo.  Tell me more about the last day of school.”  He led James back to the food, James who was watching his brother hang onto his mother’s leg with a mixture of anger and worry.  Steve was watching Joseph too, _entirely_ worried, as he reached an arm around Tony’s neck and pulled him into a half-hearted hug.

The party quickly went on, filled with good food and better cheer, and the awkward moment was all but forgotten.  It was odd how this disparate collection of people turned so _domestic_ on occasions like this.  And there were definitely cliques.  The mothers gathered to chat.  There was high-speed science talk among Bruce, Betty, and Jane.  The soldiers and veterans, including Rhodey, shared more beers over their over-flowing plates of barbecue.  Somehow there was always another war story.  And Bucky always flourished at times like this, coming out far from the crushing weight of his past with _endless_ tales from their youths to embarrass Steve, which amused Thor in particular to no end.  Darcy and the intern she’d been dating off and on for seemingly forever snuggled in the long shadows on one of the loungers.  The kids ran around, Cooper moaning and groaning about having to play with the younger ones but liking it all the same.  Then the small group of heroes that had inexplicably become a family over the years gathered to sing Steve “Happy Birthday”.  If Tony had had anything other than a nice moment planned, he didn’t go through with it.  More alcohol was imbibed.  Cake was consumed in earnest.  And the sky finally got dark enough for the inevitable massive display of fireworks.

Tony arranged his own show every year, launched from over the East River.  The view from the Tower was spectacular, and it was close enough that the sound was, well, _loud._   When the first “warning” shot went off, one of those that shook the entire city it was so big, James grabbed Steve’s hand and bounced excitedly, beaming and shouting, “Dad!  It’s starting!  It’s starting!”  He absolutely _loved_ fireworks.  But Joseph, who’d crept back to his father and his uncles during the cake, _bolted._

“Joe!  Joseph!”  Steve shouted.  Behind him, fireworks began to light the sky.  Bright blues, bleeding reds, amazing whites, with huge shapes and bigger bangs.  Steve winced, barely catching the tiny, shadowy form of his son running back inside the Tower.  “Buck.”

“Sure,” Bucky answered, and he took James’ hand and refocused him on the fireworks.  Steve didn’t wait, pushing through the party guests to the glass doors into the Tower. 

Tony was there, frowning with worry.  “Was that Joe who just–”

“Yeah,” Steve returned, fear irrationally pounding through his heart.  The booming cacophony behind them grew louder and louder as the show swung into high gear, the sparkling blasts of light reflecting off the Tower’s shining windows all around them in a dizzying, dazzling array.  The room beyond the terrace was completely empty.  Joseph wasn’t there.  “Where...”  Steve was already jogging to the halls beyond, searching each room frantically and calling Joseph’s name.  Tony did the same, but there were so many offices, bedrooms, and living spaces up here, so many places for a child as small and as smart as Joseph to hide.  Steve grew more and more worried.  The fireworks were bright, loud, and disorienting.  Each explosion vibrated the Tower, and each second they spent scrambling in futility was unbearable.  He and Tony nearly collided as they sprinted back into the hallway at the same time.  “Where is he?” Steve gasped.

“He’s gotta be here.  He couldn’t have vanished.  And JARVIS wouldn’t have let him… Wait,” Tony said.  He rolled his eyes at himself.  “God, we’re dumb.  JARVIS?”

“Little Master Rogers ran to his room.”  That was the guest room down the hall in which the boys slept when they needed to spend the night at the Tower.  Together the two men ran the length of the corridor and burst through the door.

Natasha was already there.  She was sitting on the bed, rubbing Joseph’s arm where he was curled against her with his back to hers.  Steve didn’t know how she always knew – mother’s intuition, he supposed – but she did.  A particularly loud rocket went off, rattling the windows, and Joseph flinched and pulled himself more into a little ball.  Natasha soothed him gently.  “Joseph, honey, Dad’s here.  Do you want to talk to him?”  The little red-haired head shook vehemently.  Natasha gave Steve a faint smile, rubbing their son’s arm more firmly.  “I think he wants to talk to you.”  Again a shake.  She said nothing more, smiling still at Steve as she stood from the bed and walked away.  She took Tony’s arm and led him from the room, closing the door softly behind them.

Steve watched his son shiver on the bed.  Joseph pulled the pillows closer to his face at the next series of bangs.  They were muffled by the Tower’s windows, and the blinds were drawn so the light of the fireworks was only an outline of brightly colorful flashes.  The poor boy was still terrified.  “Hey, little guy,” Steve finally said, his heart aching.

“Don’t call me that,” Joseph grumbled into the pillow.  “’m not little.”

That pain in his chest got worse.  “I know you’re not,” he said, tentatively sitting on the edge of the bed.  “I know.”  He sighed.  He never felt he was very good at this.  It seemed to come so naturally to Natasha, but he always seemed to fumble through.  “What’s the matter?  You still mad that we didn’t get to play catch?  Because we can, first thing tomorrow morning if you want.”

Joseph sniffed.  A long moment of brooding silence passed.  Then, “I don’t like fireworks.”  Steve reached his hand over and set it on Joseph’s hip.  He really was shaking.  Steve opened his mouth to say something more, but the boy went on.  “And I don’t like it when Uncle Tony and Uncle Clint and Uncle Bucky make fun of you.”

Steve sighed again.  “They really don’t mean anything by that.  Really.  Some people just kinda like to show you they care about you by teasing you.  Bucky’s been doing that to me for my whole life, but there’s no one who loves me more.  Except your mom, maybe, and you know what?  She teases me sometimes, too.  And I tease her.  It’s all out of love.”  An awful thought occurred to him.  “Did someone hurt you at school?”

The school year had recently ended, and Joseph had seemed to be on the moody and withdrawn side since then.  If he was being bullied…  He only quickly shook his head, a move that Steve recognized all too well.  Still, he decided not to press.  Instead he lay down beside him, Joseph’s little body butting up to his hip.  He was careful not to touch him too much, to offer enough contact to comfort but not coddle.  “You wanna know something?” he said after another long quiet moment.  Joseph didn’t move or answer.  He shuddered again at a loud blast.  “I don’t like fireworks, either.”

That got Joseph’s attention.  He pushed himself up and finally looked at his father, his cheeks wet with tears.  “You don’t?”

Steve shook his head.  “Nope.”

“But you’re Captain America.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like fireworks.  I don’t.”  Something eased in Joseph’s eyes at that.  “My mom always told me they were for me because it’s my birthday, but even before…”  Before the war.  Once or twice in his life since waking up in the 21st century, a seemingly innocent display of fireworks had triggered a flashback.  The last time had been years ago, just after James had been born, and the panic attack had come on so suddenly that Natasha had been terrified.  Bucky suffered with that sort of thing, too, though in recent years they’d both escaped the worst of their PTSD.  Steve smiled comfortingly and decided Joseph didn’t need to know any of that.  “When I was a kid, they used to hurt my ears.  A lot.  So I never liked them.”

Joseph looked pained and sad on his behalf.  “But it’s your birthday.  You should get to have what you want on your birthday.”

 _I do.  More than you realize._   But Steve just shrugged a little.  “Well, being Captain America has some drawbacks.”  Joseph looked doubtful, sniffling and wiping the back of his hand across his rosy cheeks.  More tears came, and abruptly his attempt _not_ to accept Steve’s comfort ended, and he flung himself into Steve’s chest.  “Hey, it’s alright,” Steve promised into his hair, rubbing his back.  “There’s no need to be scared.  Not about anything, okay?”

“I don’t like being small,” Joseph whimpered between sobs, burying his face into Steve’s shirt.

Out came the truth, at least.  Steve honestly wasn’t that surprised.  “Being small’s fine,” he replied, “because you wanna know something else?”  Joseph squeezed Steve’s shirt in his fist, crying hard.  “I was small when I was a kid, too.  I was really small.  And it’s hard.  Sometimes people tease you.  Sometimes they’re even mean about it.  But here’s the big secret, Joe, and the truth of it all.  I didn’t get picked to be Captain America because my birthday’s July 4th or because I tried to enlist so many times or because I bleed red, white, and blue, which I don’t.  And your veins are green, not blue.  Looks that way to me.”  At that Joseph choked out a giggle.  Steve slid his fingers through his hair.  “I got picked because sometimes what everyone needs is the little guy.  Sometimes the little guy is braver and tougher than even the biggest guy.  Little guys can grow up to be big and do big things if they believe in themselves and sticking to what’s right.  That’s because little guys have really, _really_ big hearts.”

Steve felt his son’s smile.  It was a big one, a little rare but so very genuine, the sort that lit up his face and reminded him so much of Natasha.  “Really?” he whispered.

“Really.”

A great, loud bang shook the Tower.  This time Joseph peeked out at the window through his fingers.  Steve smoothed his hair away from his forehead, and they laid in silence for a little while until he was almost sure he’d fallen asleep.  “I still don’t like fireworks,” he finally murmured.

Steve chuckled.  “You don’t have to,” he assured.  “But maybe…  If we watched them in here, it might be okay.  It’s not so loud, but you can still hear it and see it.  And we got each other, so if I get scared, you can tell me it’s okay, and if you get scared, I can tell you.  How’s that sound?”

Joseph lifted his head a little and looked up at him.  His eyes were still red and his cheeks still glistened, but he was smiling.  “Okay.”

“Okay.”  Steve got up and went over to the windows.  Even though he could have told JARVIS to open the blinds, he did it himself.  He was immediately awash in red and blue and white, the sky beyond them filled with fireworks.  The East River glistened with the display.  It was pretty striking.  And beautiful.

He went back to the bed and sat down against the headboard.  Joseph sniffled a few times more, little hiccups from such a hard cry, as he clambered into his father’s lap.  Together they watched the huge balls of thousands of little lights, felt the bangs rattle the building, took it all in.  Joseph relaxed into Steve’s chest.  “Dad?”

“What?”

There was Natasha’s little sly smile.  He’d gotten that from her, too.  “It is _kinda_ funny how you were born on the Fourth of July.”

Steve laughed.  “Yeah, it is.  But do me a favor, huh?”  Joseph looked at him, and Steve smiled broadly.  “Don’t tell your uncles I admitted to it.  I think you finally put them in their place.”

Joseph was positively beaming with pride.  “Really?”

“Really.  You’re my hero.”

“You’re mine, too,” Joseph said, and Steve hugged him tighter and blinked back a tear or two and tried hard not to let his own big heart get the better of him.


	21. One-upmanship

Steve tried to tell himself he wasn’t jealous of Clint, but he was.  He _really_ was.  And it was stupid, because it wasn’t like Steve was _with_ Natasha.  He was with her all the time, of course, but not _with_ her.  She was his partner, his friend, his teammate and co-worker.  She was only that.  Unfortunately.  It really was unfortunate because he was starting to realize he wanted more.  A whole lot more.  He was starting to realize that she meant so much _more_ to him.  He cared about her, of course, and had since they’d met right before the Battle of New York.  Being Avengers and partners for SHIELD required a level of professional concern and compassion for each other.  It was only natural to care about someone upon whom your life depended and for that person to depend upon and care about you in turn.  And Steve, who was often in the leadership role (even when it was just the two of them), naturally cared about his soldiers, his men (and women – very much _woman_ in this case).

But this was getting beyond that.  _Well_ beyond that.  He’d spent so much time grieving over Peggy, over his broken heart, over what they could and should have had, that he hadn’t even noticed his feelings for Natasha creeping up on him.  One night they’d been going over reports from a particularly rough mission with the STRIKE Team at his apartment.  He’d been feeling rather down about it, and she’d noticed.  She always seemed to notice everything he felt, everything he needed.  It was uncanny.  And that night, when he’d been beating himself up over everything that had gone wrong, she’d been sweet, smiling, cheering him up.  Closing the books on the disaster and dragging him to his couch to watch a movie and eat Chinese take-out.  She’d ended up cuddled up into his side, practically on his lap, and though they’d been close before, this was different.  She’d looked up at him, beautiful in the shadows and the light of his TV, and he’d almost, _almost_ kissed her.

Even though he hadn’t done anything more than blush furiously in the darkness after she’d turned back to the movie, that moment had changed everything.  It had quieted his grief for Peggy, finally healing some of his bleeding heart.  And it had made him realize that while everything he was feeling for Natasha _seemed_ sudden, it wasn’t.  These things had been there for a while; he just hadn’t realized what they were.  And now she was _much_ more than just a partner or a teammate or coworker.  More than even a friend.  But he was the only one who knew that. 

She obviously didn’t because she kept trying to set him up on ridiculous dates.  Most he’d turned down.  Natasha had been interested in his love life for a while, concerned that he was lonely and depressed (and he was).  These last weeks, however, she seemed to have someone new he should meet or call or talk to every time they were together.  That bothered him, but she always seemed… off when she made her suggestions, so he wondered if maybe she didn’t really mean what she said about these girls he _should_ be dating.  The hope that sprung eternal inside him made him think that, at any rate.  But it was much, _much_ harder to disregard her relationship with Clint Barton.

She loved Clint.  It was clear.  She joked with him.  Worked with him.  Teased him.  Trained and ate and played with him.  Hence Steve’s jealousy.  Natasha was _his_ partner now, not Clint’s (he didn’t care if that was petty).  Steve liked to think he was close with Natasha, closer than anyone else.  He knew as much of her dark past as he thought anyone did.  He knew her likes and dislikes, how she conducted herself both on and off the field.  He knew her.  But Barton… he seemed to know her better.  Those same sweet, special smiles that she gave _no one else_ she gave readily to Clint.  They talked without talking, understood each other without words, seemed to have a connection that was unshakeable.  Steve was unnerved by that (and extremely envious).  He wasn’t a great spy by any means, but he knew how to get some information, so he’d learned that Clint had saved Natasha years ago from her life as Russian assassin.  Clint had brought her into safety, into SHIELD, helped her break the chains of that life and start a new one, a better one where she could be a hero rather than a villain.  Of course she’d be close with him because of that.  And if they were anything more than really good friends, she’d never said it.  It wasn’t as if Steve had ever seen them kissing.  But for all he knew of Natasha, she coveted her secrets, and if Black Widow and Hawkeye were having a love affair, he doubted they’d be obvious about it.

It was obvious to him, though.  Obvious and frustrating and irritating.  And it really wasn’t his business if she was.  She was beautiful and powerful and smart, and she deserved to date anyone she wanted (even if that wasn’t him).  If that was Clint, then Clint was the luckiest guy alive in Steve’s book.  It wasn’t his place to feel like this.  It was selfish and stupid and childish.  And nonsensical, because Natasha wasn’t _with_ him.  They were just partners.  He needed to remember that, respect that, be _happy_ with that, but it was so hard sometimes.

Like today.  Today was a prime example as the three Avengers led a SHIELD training session down in the Triskelion’s massive gym.  The place had been altered into a massive obstacle course that had been designed to test the new recruits’ speed, agility, quick thinking, and marksmanship.  Clint stood in front of the line of students, dressed in SHIELD workout pants and a gray shirt.  “The goal is to land as many kill shots as possible in the time allotted.  You’ll have two minutes.  This gun–”  He lifted a special weapon that was plastic but otherwise looked like a standard issue handgun.  “–has been modified to detect the number of kills you make.  You’ll go against the course itself in addition to one or more live opponents.  Your peers.”

“So it’s glorified laser tag,” said one of the recruits, a smug, young guy who seemed to think he didn’t need any training.

Clint didn’t appreciate the attitude.  His face was impassive, stern, like he’d seen all of this before so it was going to take much more than some ridiculous posturing for him to be impressed, let alone intimidated.  “Whoever gets the most kills in the time allotted wins.”  He turned to his left where Natasha was standing with her arms across her chest and all her weight on her left leg.  She was appraising the recruits coolly.  “Agent Romanoff and I thought a demonstration might be appreciated.”  The students all glanced among each other, clearly excited.  Having the Avengers demonstrate anything, whether it be new tech from Stark or Captain America’s strength in the sparring ring against Thor or Hawkeye’s famed accuracy, was always an event around here.  “So we’ll show you how it’s–”

“What about Captain Rogers instead?” the same recruit asked.  He turned to look pointedly at Steve where he stood behind the group.  It was pretty obvious this kid (who could barely keep the smirk off his face) had an ulterior motive. He’d talked a big talk during the hand-to-hand combat training Steve had conducted earlier, and Steve had fairly well (and without much flair) made him eat his own words.  Now he was out for revenge.  “I mean, with all due respect to you, ma’am, this is about accuracy, isn’t it?  Cap can throw a shield just as well as Hawkeye can shoot an arrow.”

Steve wasn’t sure that was true.  And normally he’d say something like that.  But after watching Clint and Natasha whisper conspiratorially _all afternoon_ , watching him make her laugh, watching him smile at something secret she’d shared and her stand so close and… “I don’t think Cap’d be interested in that,” Clint said.

Something pretty primal – a feeling he hadn’t really felt before, save for maybe a hint of it on plane heading towards Azzano with Howard Stark teasing and talking about fondue – bubbled up inside him. It was sudden, and he didn’t stop it.  “I’m interested.”

The room went quiet.  Clint eyed him, going into “spy-mode” just to make it difficult for Steve to read him.  In the last months since he’d woken up in the 21st century, he’d acclimated pretty well to everything, but some people always seemed to treat him like he didn’t know where he was or what he was doing.  Barton was one of them.  He was always guarded, always reserved.  He was an excellent resource on the battlefield and integral to the Avengers, but he and Steve hardly spoke outside of work.  They didn’t have much of a friendship.

And this “friendly” competition didn’t look like it was going to change that.  Steve walked through the line of cadets.  They moved to let him pass, a mixture of anticipation and reverence on their faces.  Steve stood right in front of Clint, standing nearly toe to toe.  Barton was quite a bit shorter and less muscular than he was, but he wasn’t daunted.  And Natasha was staring at both of them, surprised.  “You sure, Cap?” Clint said.  “This isn’t usually your scene.”

That only further ruffled his feathers, even if Clint didn’t mean anything by it.  “Running around and shooting things?  I was in the army.  That’s what we did.”  Clint’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer to Natasha.  That made Steve pea green with envy.  His mother had always told him jealousy was a terrible sin, one that hurt you and twisted you up into something you weren’t.  He was having a hard time remembering that now.  “You think you got something I don’t, Barton?”  This was ridiculous, and Steve knew it, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Natasha seemed to realize that, too.  “Testosterone speaking much?” she joked.

And Clint looked a tad flabbergasted.  “Seriously?  You wanna do this?  See who’s better at being the best?”

“I’m game if you are.”

Clint watched him, and for his own part, Steve schooled his expression into a steely glare (one he’d learned from watching Natasha stare down terrorists and the like, to be honest).  The room was completely silent for what felt like an eternity as the two of them sized each other up.  Then Clint nodded.  “Alright.  That okay with you, Nat?”

If Natasha knew this was really about her, over her, like some ridiculous duel for a fair maiden’s hand from long ago, she didn’t show it.  She smiled faintly in amusement, backing up and gesturing at them.  “Have at it, boys.”

So they went at it.  Steve was handed another of the fake guns.  It was lighter than a normal weapon of this type, though it had obviously been constructed to feel real.  Clint took the other.  The obstacle course was a maze of walls, jumps, impediments, and other traps.  Steve glanced it over once, feeling ready and warmed-up from the class he’d taught before.  He could do this.  It should be easy.  He was Captain America.  And there were a bunch of other dumb thoughts floating around the back of his brain, which he was making no effort to ignore.  Like if he beat Clint here, Natasha would rethink her relationship with him.  Like this would make him better in her eyes, worthier of her.  Like she’d be dropping Clint like a bad habit and swooning in front of him and offering him her favor.  Lord, that was pathetic, and he felt stupid and guilty, but being in love with Black Widow was doing things to him that nothing else ever had and probably ever would.  He didn’t really notice that more than their little class of SHIELD recruits was gathering in the gym, the news of their impromptu challenge having spread like wildfire.  All he saw was Natasha, watching Clint and him both with that bemused smile on her face.  And Clint’s eyes, narrowed and confident and calculating.  _You’re going down, Barton._

The lights in the room dimmed and the course came to life.  Steve gripped the fake gun tighter.  The computer’s soft feminine voice echoed through the chamber.  “Test begins in three… two… one.”  There was a loud beep, and then both of them surged inside.

For a while, Steve thought this was going well.  _Really_ well.  He worked himself hard, running and jumping and leaping and shooting.  Shooting a lot.  He slipped down deep into concentration, letting his honed senses and battle-experienced body guide him.  The targets appeared in the course, nothing more than white outlines of figures.  They shot back, lights and lasers that somehow the computer tracked (Steve had no idea how any of this worked, but he had to admit it was pretty neat).  Just beyond the outer wall of the course he could see the timer counting down and their scores going up.  They were nearly tied, but Clint was winning.  So Steve went harder, faster, moving like a blur through the course and shooting at everything that moved.  When the laser light from his gun hit a target, it went red, and there was red _everywhere_ at this point.  He was a machine, losing himself in the task, checking their scores again and again.  Clint was still winning.  Turning a sharp corner, he caught the shadow of Barton ahead, taking a mighty jump from a lower platform to a higher one.  He took a shot at him, but he wasn’t fast enough and his aim was off.  A blink later, the shadow was gone.  Frustration left him reeling a few precious seconds.  _Don’t.  Go._

He kicked back into high gear.  This wasn’t _exactly_ his forte.  He was fast, and his ability to hit a small target was incredible thanks to the serum, but he’d been fibbing before a little with his posturing and bravado.  This _wasn’t_ much like fighting in the war.  Eventually the clock began to wind down to the last fifteen seconds, and he was still a few points down.  Steve jumped up to a tall vantage to look around and find targets to shoot.  There, to his lower left.  He leapt down, rolling agilely, and fired the gun in rapid succession.  More points scored.  Now they were tied.  He could hear people shouting, cheering, and somewhere Clint had to be close because there was a swish of cloth and the sound of targets being struck.  But Steve couldn’t lose this.  He couldn’t.  He needed to make a final kill.

As they reached the final ten seconds, Steve located the last target.  It was over some tall pillars on the other side of the course.  It wasn’t going to be easy to reach with the time he had.  He slid under a low hanging obstacle before him on his knees, springing lithely to his feet.  With one mighty push, he jumped up the pillar, leaping back and forth between the two adjacent structures to move up.  At the top, he had clean shot.  The computer counted down.  “Five… four… three…”  This was going to be it.  He was going to win.  He braced his foot against the pillar even though it wasn’t the best position, stretching as far as he could to aim.  “Two…”

Sure enough, his foot slipped.  He pulled the trigger, but his shot went wild.  The next thing he knew he was falling and slamming into the mats below.  A shadow was right there looming over him.  _Oh, no._   It was Barton.

“One.”

Clint pulled the trigger on his gun, hitting him in the chest at the absolute _last_ split second.  The sensors on the gun went red, and the computer logged the kill.  And that was it.  Clint had defeated him by _one point._

Steve groaned despite himself.  He closed his eyes for a moment, face hot but not from exertion.  Clint reached down a hand to help him up, and he looked… not winded, exactly, and not smug.  A bit relieved.  It took a great deal of swallowing his own pride for Steve to take that outstretched hand, for him to let Clint help him to his feet.  But he did.  Clint hauled him up, holding his hand a bit longer than necessary.  “Good game,” he commented evenly.

“Yeah,” Steve said.  He hoped his voice didn’t sound as glum as he felt.

Together they walked out of the obstacle course.  Outside everyone was clapping and watching them, some in surprise, some in excitement, but most in awe.  Even though Steve had lost, he’d put up a _ridiculous_ score.  Both of them had.  He prayed no one ever found out why he’d tried so hard.

Natasha smiled.  “Nice try, Cap,” she quipped, “but you oughtta know better than to go up against Hawkeye when it comes to shooting things.  We call him the best for a reason.”  She wasn’t trying to be mean.  She didn’t know how he felt about her, so of course she wasn’t.  She poked fun at things, laughed everything off, teased and joked and made light of tense moments.  But every part of Steve’s spirit was crushed down into oblivion when she said that.  And everything left of his heart wanted to slink off somewhere to die when she nudged Clint with her hip, grinned proudly at him, and turned back to the recruits.  “Okay, everyone!  Those are the scores you have to beat!”

Later that afternoon, he did manage to slink off somewhere to lick his proverbial wounds, not quite as dramatically as all that but pretty depressed nonetheless.  He took his time in the showers, waited until everyone was long gone from the locker room before emerging to get dressed.  Then he sat on the bench, hair damp and not brushed, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with one sock on and no energy to put on the second.  God, he’d made a fool of himself today.  And he felt it.  _Acutely._   He was a lovesick moron, and if Natasha had cared about him at all before, he’d made too much of a chump of himself for her to care now.

“You know, you’re an idiot.”

Steve groaned inwardly.  “Really not in the mood for you to rub it in my face,” he said, reaching down to finally put the other sock on.  Unsurprisingly, that didn’t dissuade Clint from coming closer.  He’d showered and changed into jeans, a button down green shirt, and a black jacket.  One of the reasons Steve had waited to finish up in here was to avoid this, and he’d failed again.  Magnificently so.  He picked up the pace, reaching for his shoes.

Clint shook his head, watching him analytically.  “Not here to do that.  Just trying to figure out what that was all about.”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah,” Barton grunted, folding his arms across his chest.  “Right.”  Steve sighed shortly, hoping the other man would drop it because walking out of here in the middle of this conversation was rude and cowardly, and he was neither.  “You want my opinion?  That show out there, plus a whole day of pretending not to watch Natasha flirt with me…  That was the not-so-well-hidden desperation of a guy who thinks he has something to prove.”

That ratcheted up Steve’s anger a notch.  All the jealousy came back fast.  “Not to you.”

“No, not to me.  To her.”

He couldn’t do this right now.  He finished tying his shoe and stood, reaching for his jacket on the bench next to him.  “If this is where you tell me to stay away from Natasha, save it.  I get it.”  He softened his tone.  He’d been bested, and no one was going to call him a sore loser, even if he felt like one.  He sighed to gather his composure.  “I know she’s your girl.  And I’m okay with that.  Really.  I’ll back off.  I’ll ask Fury for reassignment.  I’ll–”

“She’s my what?”  Clint laughed.  Loudly.  And Steve felt his cheeks burn.  His insecurities tightened up even more, and he turned to get out of there before this got worse.  “Dude, I’m married.”

“Wh-what?”  Steve stopped dead in his tracks.  That had come out of nowhere.  _Nowhere._   Like the universe was tipping on its side and everything was out of whack because Clint Barton, the biggest loner and coolest cucumber and hardest of the hardened SHIELD agents, was _married._

Clint smiled, chuckling still at his wide eyes and slack jaw.  “Yeah.  Have been for seven years.”

“I – I had no idea…”

“Well, that’s the point.  And not too many people know, so I’d appreciate it if you kept it quiet, huh?”

Steve dumbly stared at Clint as if he’d suddenly sprouted an additional head (or a whole new side of him, at any rate), trying to get his mind wrapped around this.  “So you and Natasha have never…”  He swallowed.  “Fondued.”

“If you mean have we ever been _together,_ no.”  Clint shook his head, amused and making very little effort to hide it.  “She’s my friend.  The best one I’ve ever had, to be honest.  So I’d appreciate it if you do right by her.”

 _What?_   “Come again?”

Clint’s smile turned softer and more knowing.  He stepped closer, sticking his thumbs into the pockets of his pants.  “You don’t need to try so hard.  Nat flirts with everyone.  That’s what they trained her to do.  But she _likes_ you.  A lot.  Like, _a lot_ , a lot _._ ”  Steve swallowed thickly.  Suddenly Clint had gone from his competition to his guide in the space of about five seconds, and his head was spinning.  He’d probably feel guilty for being a class-A jerk, but he’d just been told that Natasha _liked_ him.  He couldn’t think of anything to say because his brain had turned to mush, and even if it hadn’t, his lips were numb and his tongue was a rather inert lump in his mouth.  “She has for a while.  I’ve never seen her like this before.  Never.  I think…  Well, I think she might be in love with you.”

“L-love?”

“Yeah, Cap.  Having a problem with your hearing?” Clint joked.  Steve still couldn’t manage a coherent thought.  Barton nodded and sighed a little.  “The thing with Nat, though, is she is a master at lying, particularly to herself.  They didn’t train her to deal with emotions like this.  I’ve called her out on it a couple of times, but she’s in denial.”  _Huh?_   Clint was married.  Clint was only Natasha’s friend.  And Clint and Natasha talked about her feelings for _him?_  Obviously he’d gone to sleep last night and woken up in a brand new, crazy world again.  “So it might take her awhile to admit it to herself, let alone to you.  My advice is to be patient.  She’ll come around.”

“Be…”  He was answering before he thought to.  “Okay.”

Clint clasped him on the shoulder, giving him a brotherly shake and then a light punch.  “And that’s why I told you to do right by her.  And you better, if this goes anywhere.  You may be Captain America, but I can still kick your butt and now you know it.  Everyone knows it.”

Steve was still too numb to do anything other than nod.  “Okay.”

“’Kay.  Good chat, Cap.  See you later.”  Steve watched him go.  And when he was alone again, a ridiculous smile claimed his face.

He was still grinning like a fool when he finally emerged from the locker room.  The gym seemed completely empty.  Much to his surprise, though, Natasha was there near the door, dressed in black pants and a cream colored sweater, hair and make-up perfect.  Her lips were still quirked in that amused smile she always had.  She’d obviously been waiting for him.  “Drowning in your embarrassment?” she asked slyly at his damp, messy hair and mussed clothes.  She fell into step right beside him.

“Not quite,” Steve said, sparing her a glance.  She was devastatingly beautiful.  “Wanna get some dinner?”

She nodded slowly, perplexed.  “You seem surprisingly happy for someone who just got his butt handed to him.”

Steve put up his best mock-affronted face.  “I didn’t get my butt handed to me.”  She grinned mischievously.  “Besides, it’s alright.  Sometimes you don’t need to win to come out on top.”  She shook her head, laughing a little even though she clearly didn’t understand.  He playfully nudged her with his hip, and she nudged right back.  “Come on.  It’s gettin’ late, and I’m hungry.”


	22. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This chapter answers a prompt for Natasha dealing with her experiences being handcuffed to her bed in the Red Room and a prompt from [adorationamy](http://adorationamy.tumblr.com) for Natasha having a nightmare. It also borrows some themes from _Heart of the Storm_ , but I don't think you'll mind. Enjoy!

Natasha had nightmares.  She had them often, and she’d had them for a while.  It was a problem, one that tormented her continually.  With help (particularly from Clint) she’d adjusted to the life she led as a SHIELD agent.  The trauma of her past, what she endured when she’d been taken off the streets of Stalingrad and forced into the service of the Red Room…  It stayed with her, even years after Clint had spared her life and taken her away from it all.  She’d been trained, twisted, violated in ways that had scarred her deeply.  Turned into something she knew now was wrong and evil.  As a child, she hadn’t even realized the abuse she’d endured had been that: abuse.  And as she’d grown in their hands, matured into a woman while being molded by their torments into the assassin Black Widow, she hadn’t ever thought there’d been anything wrong with the life she’d lived.  There was power in the pain, so much power, and she’d been taught to crave that.  The Red Room had whittled away everything but the core of a killer, and she’d never doubted its results or the methods that had produced them.

Then Clint had saved her.  And she’d become an Avenger and Captain America’s partner.  And then she’d fallen in love with Steve.  Now she was understanding more and more how _wrong_ everything had been.  What she’d done, yes.  But what had been done to her, too.  She’d spent years trying to fix her faults without truly accepting that the blame hadn’t entirely been hers.  This wasn’t to say that she despised herself; on the contrary, she was proud of her skills despite how she’d come to acquire them.  Nor did she think she was faultless or that her actions had been justified.  She’d simply come to accept that she’d done a great deal of evil, and she’d needed to make amends, hence joining SHIELD and becoming an Avenger and who she was today.

Still, these things, the dark past she had and things she carried, gifts and curses alike, came with costs.  It was hard even now to _forget_ who she had been.  The lessons she’d been taught were impossible to erase from the fabric of her mind and body.  _Men are not marks.  Killing is not the answer.  Cruelty and control are not power._   She’d been tempted time and again to go back to that because it was safe and easy and what she knew, but she’d stayed true to who she wanted to be, not what she had been.  The stigma of Black Widow would follow her everywhere.  The ghosts of the people she’d murdered.  The red in her ledger.  She could become an Avenger and work alongside Iron Man and Hawkeye and Thor and Captain America all she wanted, but she feared it would never be _enough_ to prove to anyone else, let alone herself, that she was reformed.  She would never stop trying, though.  She’d sworn that to herself.

And there were other costs she couldn’t overcome with willpower alone.  Like the nightmares.  It was disturbing and terrifying and embarrassing.  Natasha abhorred weakness, particularly in herself, so she’d dealt with this alone for quite some time.  Clint knew.  It had been unavoidable.  There had been times over the years they’d worked together that he’d been there when she’d woken up screaming.  While he’d never done a _thing_ to disparage her over her dreams, she’d still been coldly mortified, clamming up and closing down and hiding.  Once he’d suggested a therapist, but at her curt refusal, he’d never mentioned it again.  She could tell he’d been worried.  Any shame or guilt she’d felt over that hadn’t been enough for her to admit she had a problem.  And she’d found ways around it.  Volunteering for watch whenever they were holed up somewhere.  Trying to arrange their schedules so they rarely spent the night in each other’s proximity.  Thanks to her training and the weakened version of the serum in her body, she could go without sleep for longer.  It had worked well enough.

But it wasn’t going to work now.  Since partnering with Captain America, she’d kept up the charade for a while.  She was good at lying, good at hiding things, so it hadn’t been too hard.  But then she’d ended up helping Steve through a few of his own nightmares, dreams of the _Valkyrie’s_ crash and the war, and that had taken their relationship into new directions.  She’d stayed with him a few nights when he’d really been struggling with it, and she had to admit she liked sleeping near him.  And in the field, of course, they’d been holed up together once or twice and the call of exhaustion had defeated her determination.  Thankfully, she’d kept her problems in check those times.  He didn’t know.  As they transitioned from partners to friends and from friends to something more, however, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep this hidden. It felt like a dirty little secret, something to be ashamed of, like if he found out, he might not want the added burden.  And it was keeping them apart, keeping her driving back to the Triskelion night after night when she wanted nothing more than to stay with him until morning.

Eventually, it became too hard to keep this painful distance between them.  He didn’t understand why, and she could tell that was hurting him.  She’d never been in love before, not like this, and it was painful for her too.  It was torturous in fact, leaving him every night.  So one evening when they were both worn and wearied from a long mission, they’d fallen into his bed together.  And she’d let herself fall asleep.

And, of course, the nightmares came.  They always did.

– _dancers dancing.  Long shadows.  A gray world.  A gun in her hand.  “Dance, Natalia.”  She would.  She would be beautiful, powerful, deadly and dangerous.  And she wasn’t going to break.  “You’re unbreakable”.  Dance.  Fight.  Kill.  She wasn’t going to stop.  She wasn’t going to fail.  “You never fail.”  Pain in her body, in her heart.  Fear.  Necessary sacrifices.  Necessary evil.  She was evil.  Their dancer.  Their weapon.  That was all she could be.  A bed rolling down a hallway.  Wheels screeching.  Girls screaming.  She was falling asleep, but she didn’t want to.  She couldn’t.  “I have no place in the world.”  They wouldn’t hurt her anymore–_

“Nat?”  A hand curled around her arm, tugging.  “Nat, you okay?  Wake up.”  The hand grew tighter.  Pulling her.  She wouldn’t let them _touch_ her.  She wouldn’t let them take her!  “Wake up.  You’re having a bad dream.  Natasha.  Natasha!”

She woke up.  She moved.  She fought.  _She could kill_.

It was an eternity, it seemed, before she came back to herself.  And when she did, she saw to her absolute horror that she wasn’t back there, back in the Red Room where she had been hurt and tortured and turned into Black Widow.  She was in Steve’s apartment in DC, in his bed with the moonlight streaming through the windows to their left.  And she was pinning him down, her knees tight across his chest and her hands clenched around his throat.  She was strangling him, and he was _letting_ her.  “Nat,” he whispered.  His fingers were tight on her forearms, tight with a warning, but he wasn’t stopping her.  His eyes were wide, any hint of sleep gone, but even though she had him at her mercy, he wasn’t afraid for himself.  He was afraid for her.  “Nat, it’s Steve.  It’s Steve!  Please listen!  You’re safe.  You’re safe.”

Her heart was pounding.  A cold sweat tickled the small of her back, and she couldn’t catch her breath.  She started shaking.  The shadows pressed close, and his bedroom spun in a dizzying blur of black.  The nightmare faded in leaps and bounds, terror replaced with _horror_ and then _panic_ , and before she could think she was jumping off of him and _running._

“Nat!  Nat, wait!  Wait!”

He was following of course, leaping from his bed to sprint after her.  The panic and revulsion left her only one choice, and she took it, because he was faster and stronger than her and everything was still so addled.  She darted into the guest bathroom and slammed the door behind her.  Steve stopped outside; she could hear him breathing heavily, even as she stood stock still in paralyzing shame and fear.  She’d almost killed him.  She _could have_ killed him.  She was a monster.  She was a _murderer_.

The silence was thick and miserable.  She couldn’t bear to move, to think, to breathe.  She felt awful, guiltier than she had in a long time.  She’d let down her guard, let herself think she was good enough to be _normal,_ and he’d almost paid the price.  It didn’t matter that he could have stopped her.  It didn’t matter.

And she was vulnerable.  S _o vulnerable._

“Natasha.”  His voice was calm and quiet.  Natasha closed her eyes, tipping her head back.  She wiped at her face to brush away the tears that had somehow escaped, wetness gathering on her eyelashes as she tried to hold everything back.  “Natasha, love.  Talk to me.  Let me in?”

She wasn’t going to let him in.  She wasn’t going to open that door or anything else to him.  She couldn’t.  If he knew the truth about her, about the things she’d done and the things that had been done to her…  _“You have no place in the world.”_   A small part of her knew this was ridiculous, that she was hiding in his bathroom like a pathetic child, but she couldn’t bring herself to answer.  She could still hear him breathing, though now it wasn’t loud.  She could practically feel him press up against the door.  “Natasha…  Please talk to me.  You don’t have to hide this.  And you didn’t hurt me.  It’s alright.”

“It’s not alright!” she replied in a hoarse voice.  The words exploded out of her, weak and strangled with emotion that she couldn’t control anymore.  She had for years.  _Years._   And she just couldn’t lie to herself anymore.  “It’s not!”

“It is,” he insisted softly.  “You had a bad dream, Nat.  That’s nothing to be ashamed of.  I have ’em all the time.  You know I do.”  She felt her knees crumple, felt herself go down.  The tiles of the floor were cold beneath her, and the door was firm behind her, but she felt like she was falling forever.  She couldn’t do this.  Maybe she’d woken from the nightmare, but this still felt wrong and unreal, twisted and confusing.  “Talk to me.  Tell me about it.  It helps.  I know it doesn’t seem like it does, but it does.  It helps me all the time.”  Her chest constricted, and her lungs seemed to spasm until breathing was impossible.  She prayed he couldn’t hear her shaking pants.  She couldn’t hide in here, and she knew it, but she prayed he’d let her try.

He didn’t.  “What did you dream?”

Again, it came.  All of her doubts and insecurities.  She gave a twisted shade of a laugh.  “That I was an Avenger.”  Her voice was soft.  Weak.  “That I was anything other than the assassin they made me be.”  There was no answer.  He was probably shocked, perhaps even disgusted.  “That I was good enough to be someone you could love.”

“Nat…”

“You don’t know,” she whispered, her breaths harsh against her knees as she dropped her head into them.  “You don’t know what they made me do.  What they did to me.  In the Red Room, where I was trained…  They made me…  I killed people.  People who couldn’t fight.  People who stood no chance.  They taught me to lie and twist people and…  And they had a graduation ceremony.”  The memories were fresh, prodding at the edges of her consciousness, until she could barely keep them at bay.  She refused to let them overwhelm her anew, but her stubbornness didn’t feel to be sufficient this time.  She couldn’t tell him this.  _She couldn’t._

But the words tumbled from her mouth, pouring like poison she was at long last letting out, because he deserved to know.  He deserved to know what he was sacrificing by choosing her.  “They sterilized me.”

The quiet returned.  That awful truth hung in it, threatening, looming with everything it implied that she couldn’t say.  It was entirely uncharacteristic for her to admit these things, and even more so to _keep_ talking, but she did.  “It’s efficient,” she said, like that justified it.  Like there could be justification for this or anything else in her past.  “Necessary.  No attachments.  No chance that anything could be more important than the mission.  It…  It makes you a better killer.”

He didn’t stand for that.  “That’s not what you are.  Nat, that’s not–”

“You don’t know!  You don’t know what it was like!”

Thankfully, he didn’t argue.  “No, I don’t.”

It was coming faster and faster now, and the tears were coming with it.  “I dream about it a lot.”  She was realizing why.  Her nightmares varied, but of late the horrible memories of being wheeled into the room where the Red Room had taken away her ability to bear children…  She shuddered.  This was a manifestation of everything she was feeling.  As things became more and more serious between Steve and her, as she fell deeper and deeper in love with him, she _wanted_ to be what he needed and deserved.  And that had to include children.  It had to.  “And not just that.  _Everything_.  Everything they did to me.  They… At night, _every night_ , they handcuffed us to our beds.  All of us.  Not just so we couldn’t escape.  They _trained_ us to need it, to need that to sleep.  And I can’t – I can’t sometimes without that.  That’s so screwed up, but I don’t know how to be anything different.  I don’t know how…”  She tipped her head back and it thudded softly against the door.  “You don’t want this.  You can’t want this.”

She wanted to take those words back as soon as she said them, because it terrified her that they would be _true._   He’d reject her when she’d finally and at long last opened herself to him.  She cared about him – loved him – too much to let him be blind-sided by all of the darkness under Natasha’s Romanoff’s well-masked exterior.  This was her burden to bear, her punishment for the way she’d lived.  Her penance.  She would deal with it alone.  All the doubts she’d had from the first moment she’d kissed him were coming back in full force.  She couldn’t do this.  She couldn’t do it _to him_.

In the tense, unbearable silence that followed, she silently cried for the first time in forever as she awaited his agreement, awaited him standing and leaving her.  Eventually he did stand.  Then it was only a matter of waiting for his tell-tale steps as he walked away.  Those never came.  “Nat, open the door.  Please.”  The wood behind her shifted as he leaned his weight a little into it, like he was trying to embrace her through it.  “You don’t have to go through this alone.  Please let me in.”

This need for _comfort_ was so sudden and novel, so foreign, to her that at first she didn’t know what to do with it.  She’d lived her life controlling her emotions, suffering in silence because weakness was to be eradicated rather than accepted.  Now she couldn’t deny it, because every nerve in her body was tingling to be touched.  It was a physical thing, powerful, shaking her to her core.  And it wasn’t just a need for comfort.  It was need for comfort from him.  A need for him to help her.

She was dizzy and nauseous and aching, but she was on her feet without a thought.  She grasped the cold doorknob with a sweaty, shaking hand and turned it.  Through the tentative crack she saw him, standing in the hallway, haloed by the light of his bedroom.  He was mussed from sleep, worried but steady, smiling weakly at her.  “Come on,” he beckoned gently with nothing but patience in his voice.  “It’ll be alright.”

That was all she needed to embrace the thrumming yearning inside her.  She opened the door the rest of the way and let him come to her.  His hands were big and warm, familiar now after so much time together.  They settled on her shoulders, and she flinched.  She couldn’t help herself.  It was all still _there,_ right in the shadows, threatening.  “Hey,” he whispered, coming closer one timid, careful moment at a time.  “They can’t hurt you anymore.  I promise.”  She nodded, lips trembling as she bit them.  Logically, she knew that was true, even if it _felt_ like they could.  It was the past, and she was safe here.  But it was so difficult to accept.  His palms slid up to her cheeks and his smile stretched bigger.  “Let me take care of you.”

God, she wanted that.  As his thumbs brushed her tears away, she nodded.  It took nothing for him to lift her slight form into his embrace, and she let him.  She buried her face into his shoulder, sniffling and breathing deeply of him, as he looped an arm under her knees and another around her body.  He carried her back into his bedroom and tenderly laid her in his bed.  “Steve,” she cried as he pulled away, latching onto his hand.  But he was only stretching to reach the light switch.  The room plunged back into darkness, and he never let her go.

He was back in bed beside her almost instantly.  He waited until she was ready, until the tension and fear had left her muscles, and once he knew his touch was welcome he gave it.  She let herself be gathered against him, let his lips kiss her forehead and then gently press over her mouth.  “You didn’t ask them to do what they did to you,” he said, cupping her face.  He caressed the hair from it, pushing it behind her ear.  “Whatever you did, they _made_ you do it.  Maybe that’s not enough to make it okay.  It might not be enough for absolution.  But you know what, Nat?  It’s definitely enough to make you deserve every bit of comfort you can get.  And the fact that all of that happened to you and you still spend every day doing the right thing and trying so hard to be a good person and _succeeding…_   That’s more than enough to make you deserve me loving you.”  Her face crumpled into a wet frown, ashamed of so much.  Ashamed of who she’d been, who she was.  Ashamed of needing this sort of reassurance.  “Hey.  Don’t.  It’s alright.”

She sighed a shaking breath, unable to speak.  They were quiet a bit longer, him kissing her over and over again.  Slow, gentle, _reverent_ kisses that offered love and solace and respect and so many wonderful things she’d never known she’d wanted let alone needed.  He tucked her closer to him.  “And as for… what they did to you.  I don’t care, if that’s what you’re worried about.  I don’t care.”

“Steve…”

“You’re not a monster.  I don’t care what they did to you.”

She shook her head, fighting a fresh rush of tears to her eyes.  “They ruined my body.  I can’t give you the things _you_ deserve,” she whispered.

He looked a tad affronted.  “How do you know what I deserve?  Up until the serum, I was thankful just to be alive.  Now I’m here.  And I lost things along the way…”  _Friends.  Family.  Peggy.  His life._   “…but I count my blessings every day that I found you.”  She gasped a sob, burying her face into his neck.  He shushed her softly, sweeping his hands in a comforting pattern down her head and neck and back and then up again.  Once she quieted, he dropped a kiss into her hair.  “They didn’t ruin you.  They didn’t ruin anything.  When we’re ready for it, for kids and a family, _if_ we’re ever ready for it…  We’ll figure it out.”

She nodded against his shoulder.  His hands found her face again, lifting it so he could kiss her.  Her eyes burned and her body hurt and everything felt so strained and raw.  She was tired, so very tired.  “Sleep,” he implored.  “You don’t have to be afraid.  And you don’t have to hide.  I’m right here with you.”

So she tried again.  Tried for many long, restless minutes.  But the idea of sleep now was utterly terrifying.  If she had another nightmare, if she _hurt_ him…  Of all the horrible atrocities she’d committed, _that_ would be the worst, the most unforgivable.  Her muscles tingled, a sense of _wrongness_ that went straight to her bones.  She couldn’t clear her mind no matter how exhausted she was, vacillating between trembling and struggling to even out her breathing and downright weeping anew.  He watched, trying to comfort with words, with his hands soothing her, with promises that everything would be alright.  There was helpless horror across his face.  “Can I try something?”  She was too lost at this point to do anything other than nod.  “Which hand was it?”

“Wh-what?”

“When they…”  He managed to get his own apprehension under control.  “When they cuffed you to your bed.  Was it always the same hand?”

The urge to run again, to get away from this, was almost overwhelming.  But his eyes grounded her.  “This one,” she whispered, lifting her right hand.  The bruises that had perpetually encircled her wrist for her whole youth were long, long gone, but she could still picture them.  How they looked.  How they hurt.

“Do you trust me?”  The answer came easily, naturally, but again all she could do was nod.  So he drew a deep breath and shifted her so her back was to his chest, spooning her with his large frame.  He reached his right arm under her, pillowing her head on his shoulder, and carefully took her wrist.  His grip was warm, tight enough that she couldn’t easily break free but not so tight as to hurt in the least.  He stretched her arm out slightly so that it was near the edge of his bed by the last post of the headboard.  And he held her there, his left arm curling around her belly to take her other hand and weave their fingers together.  He kissed the nape of her neck.  “Is this okay?”

It was okay.  It felt… comforting, a perverted comfort but a comfort nonetheless.  And he was willing to give it to her, even if he was uncomfortable himself.  So she nodded once more, relaxing by bits and pieces, until his even breathing and heat lulled her finally back to a peaceful sleep.

And that was how it was for a while, how she learned to sleep beside him.  How she learned to finally let someone in.  He held her wrist, kept her trapped against him, and the nightmares stayed away.  Over time, he started to hold her hand instead of her wrist.  It was a slow development, a welcomed one, but a tentative thing that took some time and trust to take shape.  His fingers wrapped into hers.  His heart open and offering.  And once she realized the nightmares were better, so much better, she let him just _hold her_ each and every night, all of his heat and strength wrapped around her body like a shield against the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to the lovely [vbprodz](http://vbprodz.tumblr.com) for this amazing artwork. And thanks to [adorationamy](http://adorationamy.tumblr.com) for the prompt!


	23. Eat My Shorts (Literally)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This one is a mushy mess of three prompts: the zoo, a tantrum, and Steve and Nat discussing another baby (Jewelcassy, one of these is yours! Don't remember which though. Sorry!). Enjoy!

Oddly enough, Thor liked to go out and do things.  He’d been living rather permanently on Earth, married to one Jane Foster, for more than three years now, and he still found so many places and people of this realm intriguing.  In particular, he enjoyed activities that, well… were meant for kids.  He liked the beach, the idea of playing in the surf and swimming in the ocean, of hunting for seashells and building castles and playing games in sand.  He liked sports, touch football, soccer, ultimate Frisbee and the like, running around in the sun at a park or the Rogers’ or Bartons’ backyards and laughing.  He loved circuses and arcades and amusement parks.  And zoos.  He _loved_ zoos.  Apparently they had nothing equivalent on Asgard, and he appreciated being able to see exotic animals up close and the joy others, particularly kids, derived from those wonders.  Every time their odd family of superheroes gathered for anything, whether it be a birthday, some other celebration, or a simple dinner that had grown to include everyone, Thor was the one who suggested the party games or a round of whatever physical activity with which he was currently enamored (he appreciated good-hearted competition almost as much as he liked fun).  The others of the team found this endlessly entertaining, and Steve had to admit it was amusing to see an ancient, all-powerful demigod who was for all intents and purposes an alien (and one of if not the strongest being on the planet) revel in youthful delights.  Of course, it wasn’t so easy to keep up with Thor.  Steve was about the only one on the team who physically could (and he barely did).  And Thor loved to go and go and go until everything was seen and every moment of fun was finished and everyone else dropped dead from exhaustion.

Today was no exception.  Steve had brought James with him to the Tower.  Natasha was out of town on a mission for SHIELD and wouldn’t be back until that evening, so he’d sought some company with the rest of the Avengers.  After loafing around for most of the morning, Thor had grown bored and proclaimed that this summer weather was far too beautiful to waste indoors.  While Steve was normally inclined to agree with something like that, when Thor was suggesting an outdoor adventure, a quest for a good time on a gorgeous day, he literally meant that: a quest and an adventure.  Thanks to the serum he had boundless energy.  He didn’t get tired.  His muscles didn’t ache from use and abuse.  His feet didn’t hurt or drag from walking all day.  However, he was quickly discovering that compounding any energetic outing by bringing along a toddler made him utterly _exhausted._   And James wasn’t exactly in the best of moods with his mother gone.

However, Thor smacked his back with enough strength to topple him and laughed away his dismay and hauled James up onto his shoulders before marching boldly out the door.  Steve had groaned, picked up James’ bag, and followed.

He had to admit the day started out very nicely.  Despite having lived in New York City for some time, Thor had never seen Brooklyn, so they headed there first.  James rode atop Thor’s massive form, securely held in place by Thor’s hold on his ankles, as they roamed the sun-soaked streets.  Steve liked coming back to Brooklyn, to his old neighborhood, and he and Bucky had visited quite a few times now.  The pain he’d used to feel at seeing so much different from how it had been when he’d been a boy was long gone, replaced now with fond nostalgia.  He told stories as they’d walked, pointing things out to Thor who responded with tales of his own of his youth.  Growing up as a crown prince in a palace seemed very different from being a poor boy in an immigrant neighborhood, but the way Thor talked about things, Steve felt his exact equal.  He always did with Thor.  They’d made a fast friendship when the team had first formed, the two of them both proverbial fish out of water in this time and world.  They could lament together, close ranks when the others teased, fumble through all the modern technology and endless pop culture references side by side.  That connection had lasted well beyond their timid beginnings.  Thor was something of his opposite: loud, gregarious, a bit arrogant, but he had the biggest heart Steve had ever seen.  He was loyal, strong, and never afraid to stand up for what was right.  That made him more than worthy of Steve’s highest esteems.  And Thor, who _was_ a prince and the God of Thunder for crying out loud, _deferred_ to his leadership in battle, so that was something, too.

After Brooklyn, Thor was eager for more, so Steve drove them to Central Park, and that was nice, too.  The day was beautiful, extremely warm but with a pleasant breeze, a bright blue sky, and pretty, fluffy clouds.  They wandered around the park, Steve practically buying out a hot dog stand to feed Thor and himself.  They ended up at Umpire Rock, and Thor made a game of lugging James’ giggling body up and down the steep parts.  Steve followed behind, letting Thor have the moment.  Thor absolutely adored James.  Everyone did, but Thor had always considered James to be something of the team’s child, the first born of their “family” and heir to an important legacy, which Steve thought appealed to Thor’s own situation.  And it certainly helped that they’d discovered not long ago that James, like his father (and mother apparently), could lift Mjölnir.  Thor had been impressed, to say the least.

They sat at the top for a while, Steve showing James how to pick out shapes and animals from the clouds.  Apparently they had no similar game on Asgard, and Thor was rapidly likening the puffs to huge beasts from his own realm.  Steve had no idea what any of them were, and he didn’t bother to ask.  James found it endlessly entertaining as Thor mimicked these strange animals, so Steve just accepted that the dog he’d pointed out was never going to be as exciting as the “bilgesnipe”, whatever that was.

During the walk back to the car, James fell asleep against Steve’s shoulder, which was good because he’d been getting crabby again.  “You wanna pack it in?” he asked, glancing at his friend and then his watch.  It was nearly three.  Natasha wasn’t due back until after dinner, but he had things he needed to do at home.  Like all the housework.

Thor looked dubious, and that was all Steve needed to know this afternoon was far from over.  “The day is yet young.  It is not even the dinner hour.”

“Nat comes back after the dinner hour,” Steve explained, “and I promised her I’d get some things done.”

“You are a man of your word,” Thor agreed.  He squinted, looking around the busy park and the people still greatly enjoying the day.  “And you are a man of great resourcefulness and alacrity.  Whatever chores you must complete, I am sure you will do so admirably in whatever time you have.”

Steve stared him, lifting James to tuck him closer into his neck.  “What do you want to do,” he moaned.

Thor smiled.  “Your game of animal imagery has inspired me.”

And Steve realized.  His stomach plummeted. _The zoo._   Nobody else would ever go with him.  With James, Thor had a _reason_ to hide behind.  Steve wanted to groan.  “Thor…  I…  I’m tired.  And James is not in the best of moods.  One thing I have learned is to let sleeping children lie.”

“Nonsense,” Thor assured.  “Besides, I have not yet visited the one belonging to this park.  I am told it is smaller and easily completed.”  He smiled broadly.  “It will be fun.  James loves this as well.”  Steve knew that.  He was almost three now and he could name a lot of the animals.  He was really starting to appreciate things like this.  “By the time we walk there, he will have slept long enough to be rejuvenated.”

That could be the case.  Still…  “She’s going to kill me if I don’t get the house cleaned.”

“You have no sense of adventure, my friend.”

“I’m married, Thor.  And so are you.  That’s my sense of adventure.”

Thor honest to God _pouted._   If he hadn’t been seeing it with his own two eyes, Steve wouldn’t have believed it.  He stared at the wistful expression, the slightly protruding lower lip and the downcast face.  Maybe he was simply a push-over; he’d always been the kind to go with the flow unless the flow went somewhere bad or unfair.  And maybe it was because he _did_ feel just a little bad for ordering Thor around on the battlefield.  Whatever the reason, he couldn’t say no.  “Oh, for Pete’s sake…  _Fine_.”

They started walking.  James was sweetly sleeping, entirely content.  For anyone else carrying a toddler this far would have probably been taxing, but for Steve it was fine, and the journey through the park was pleasant.  Thor was watching the families everywhere as they played and enjoyed the day and each other.  Steve was watching him, seeing something for the first time and wondering how he hadn’t noticed it before.  “It’s hard, isn’t it?” he gently asked.  Thor turned to him questioningly before turning back to the park around them.  “It’s hard being here away from your family.  And doing stuff like this helps.”

For a moment, Steve wondered if Thor would answer.  He was open ( _very_ open) about most aspects of his life, but they’d all realized shortly on in being a team that he could be particularly guarded about his family.  “Yes,” he eventually agreed, “it is hard.  I lament the absence of my parents in my life.  My father loved me dearly.  He still does, despite how he has changed with age and… recent events.  But he was never one for frivolity.”  They fell into a not quite comfortable silence, and Thor seemed a bit tense, so Steve decided to drop it.  As they walked a moment more, though, he continued.  “In truth, it is Loki that I miss the most.  I know you likely think it’s disreputable of me to say that, given what Loki has become.”

“You know I don’t,” Steve quietly reminded.  “I’ve seen my best friend turn against me.”

“Bucky was forced.”  Thor didn’t give Steve a chance to argue with that, even though he wanted to.  “Loki and I were quite the tricksters in our youths.  It was frowned upon to act as we did, given we were the sons of Odin and destined to rule the realm, but we were boys and we loved mischief-making.  There was a lake not far from the palace that we often frequented to swim and play at battle.  As with your cloud animals game, we let our imaginations take us.”  Thor’s voice quieted further.  “There are many moments in our youths that I hold dear.   They remind me of the brother I loved before he lost his way.  Like this…”  He gazed around the park, the children together, laughing and bickering and playing and shouting.  “This reminds me of him.”

Steve looked.  Thor was right, because it reminded him of Bucky, too.  He and Bucky had spent so much time playing together when they’d been boys.  They’d never had much, not with his mother and Bucky’s parents so poor, but they’d had each other.  And the alley where they’d played stickball.  And Ebbet’s Field a summer or two.  And Coney Island.  And the schoolyard jungle gym.  These places formed a map of their childhoods.  “Yeah.”

“Siblings shape our lives,” Thor added.  “They shape who we are.  They hold our hearts, help us win our battles and lose gracefully when we cannot.  They teach us about love and friendship.  Honesty and integrity.”

Steve gave a sly smile.  “And jealousy.  And about teasing.  And how to throw a mean right hook.”

Thor laughed.  “Aye, those things, too.”  They walked in silence for a little longer.  Then the demigod sighed.  “Blood does not matter.  I am no more related to Loki than you are to Bucky, but we are both the men we’ve become because of them.  And I enjoy being reminded of that, of the times in our youths where we were carefree and nothing more than two children learning to play together.”

Steve was still thinking about that when they reached the zoo.  Thor paid their entrance fee, and they ventured inside.  Thor seemed contemplative, quieter than normal, not sad per se but maybe a little maudlin.  Steve cheered him up with a few lame jokes about the animals, really bad ones like “what kind of milk do you get from a pampered cow?” ( _spoiled_ , of course), and “what do you call a bear with no ears?” (“B” – Thor had actually laughed at that one).  All in all, this was fine, and the zoo was small, so all was well.

But then James woke up.

And he woke up _crabby._   He was potty-training, and Steve had put him in a pull-up, but needless to say he didn’t give his father enough warning (or any warning at all) before letting loose.  So that had required a rushed trip to the nearest men’s room and a complete change of attire (thankfully Steve had been spared of the accident).  After that, he was prickly, difficult, and vociferously exercising every two-year old’s favorite word.

“You want to see the tigers, James?”

“No.”

“Want some of your juice?”

“No!”

“Want Daddy to–”

“No, no.  Don’t wanna!”

Things only devolved from there.  With one forty-five minute nap, James had gone from a little temperamental to a horrific monster.  Steve had been worried about this all day, pushing their luck too far, and now Thor’s bet that James would like this was turning out to be a pretty big loser.  But they pressed on at Thor’s insistence.  When they got to the children’s zoo, James calmed down.  With Thor at his side, he petted the goats and the lambs.  He cupped his hands and Thor poured feed into them from a machine that dispensed some for a quarter.  And he’d giggled like an angel, so excited by it all, running around with the other children to all the different animals.  Happy as a lark, he was.

Until it was time to go.

“No!  I don’t wanna go!  Don’t wanna go!”

“James, that’s enough,” Steve said wearily.  It was time to extricate themselves from this before it got any worse.  Of course, as was the wont of situations like this (as Steve was rapidly learning), it was too late.  Worse was unfolding right before them.

James turned away from the goats he was feeding.  He dropped the rest of the feed, shook his head, and planted his butt firmly on the dirty ground with his arms tucked tight around his little body.  “No!”

Thor handed Steve his large cup of soda to hold, crouching to pull James onto his feet.  “Listen,” he said.  “This has been fun, but all good times must end.”  This was truly getting wearying for _him_ to want to throw in the towel.

Steve sighed.  “Uncle Thor’s right.  It’s getting late.  We need to go.”

“No!”

Thor’s expression grew sterner.  “You shall not speak to your father this way.  He and I have provided a fun afternoon for you.”

Steve winced; that logic didn’t work on toddlers.  _Nothing_ worked on toddlers other than removing them from the situation.  The two of them were Avengers and among the strongest people on the planet.  They could certainly haul a two-year old kicking and screaming out of a zoo lightning quick.  The thought of the scene that would make was cringe-inducing.  He’d try the old bribery tactic.  “Come on, James.   Mommy’s waiting for us at home.  She misses you.  And if you come right now, I’ll get you an ice cream on the way out.”

“No!”

So bribery was a no-go.  Next always came begging.  “James, come on, buddy,” he said wearily.  “Dad’s tired.  Uncle Thor’s tired.”  Not likely, but begging was usually tied to lying.  “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“No!”

Thor rose to his full, impressive height.  Overhead, the sky started to darken.  _Oh, boy._   “I am Thor, son of Odin, heir to the throne of Asgard,” he said quietly but ominously.  “You will behave and abide by our requests, young one, and you will do so _now_.”

And little James Rogers turned his face upward, tucked his arms even tighter across his chest, looked his uncle straight in the eye, and gave a stern, stubborn, “Uh-uh.”

Steve didn’t know if he wanted to wince or smile.  Any other kid would have probably been terrified.  Not his, apparently.  He stepped in before Thor made it storm over the zoo.  “Alright, you know what?  You’re done.”  He scooped James up one-handed, holding Thor’s drink far from his chest.  James shrieked and flailed, over-stimulation and toddler- obstinacy and Rogers-obstinacy quickly turning this into an all-out temper tantrum.  Steve tried to angle him away, but he wasn’t quite prepared for the force of it.  James hit the drink right out of his hands.  Sticky soda flew all over Steve and Thor both.  Steve spent a moment reeling, just long enough for James to squirm his way back down and take off running.  “James!  _James!_ ”

“I will get him!” Thor declared, but he didn’t get far.  The goat James had been feeding walked right up and sunk its teeth into his shorts pocket where he’d foolishly put all of the animal feed.  Thor let loose a very unmanly yelp, jerking away.  This goat obviously had the strength of the gods behind it, because it didn’t let go.  Thor pulled harder and almost ripped his shorts off in the process.  People gasped.  Steve felt his face positively _burn_ as he rushed to grab Thor’s shorts and keep them from falling.  Feed spilled all over their shoes and the ground, and the animals came flocking.  Steve barely dodged one, tripping over his own feet and ending up colliding with the little vending machines that dispensed the corn and feed.  They broke (of course) and he went down in the dirt (of course) for his troubles, tearing Thor’s shorts further.  Growling in the back of his throat with frustration, he scrambled up and ran after his wayward son.

Thor was somehow faster, even holding his shorts up, leaping over the fence of the petting zoo and nabbing James’ little body with surprising tenderness considering how quickly and forcefully he moved.  He tucked James to his chest, his massive arms tight around the squirming child.  “James, you will stop this.  James!”  By now, _everyone_ was watching them.  Zoo employees had come when the feed machines had toppled, and Steve winced in utter horror as mothers covered their children’s innocent eyes at the sight of Thor’s drawers.  _Oh, Lord Almighty._

“James, son of Rogers!” Thor said again, louder with every bit of his rank and position behind the command.   “You will stop!”  James startled, like he hadn’t realized Uncle Thor could sound like that, and ceased his hollering.  Thor held him tighter and tighter, not enough to hurt but enough to help prevent the fit from continuing.  Steve didn’t know if it was instinctive or if the demigod had seen him do this once or twice, but that was the same tactic he often employed when James got this way.  When Thor was sure it was over, he turned him around, his huge hands curled around James’ little shoulders.  “You will not act this way.  As I said, your father has taken you on an enjoyable excursion.  Now it is sadly time for that to end.  We must go home.  There will be another day for fun.  It is a difficult thing to learn.”  James, still wide-eyed, sobbed and sniffled.  “Do you understand, my child?”

The toddler nodded, though probably not because he understood but just because he was exhausted and shocked.  Thor hugged him tight, kissing his forehead.  His voice was soft and loving.  “Now that you are calm, we can go.  Do you wish me to carry you?”  James nodded again.  Thor lifting him with one arm, the other holding his shorts in place.  He turned and glanced at Steve, smiling and wincing at once, before walking away as briskly as he could.

Covered in soda, dirt, and animal feed, Steve just stood there.  He finally exhaled.  _And this is why I didn’t want to do this._ “Excuse me, sir?”  He turned to see one of the zoo employees watching him with huge eyes.

“Oh.”  Horrified and more embarrassed than he could really recall ever feeling, he fumbled for his wallet.  “Oh, I’m so sorry.  I mean, geez, I, uh…”  He had a check in there, as well as a wad of cash.  He handed the bills to the employee, a few hundred in all.

The guy grimaced.  “It’s not necessary.  Really.”

“No, I insist.  Do you… do you have a pen?  I’ll write you a check.”

“It’s fine, sir.  Just go.”

Steve tucked tail and ran.  They drove all the way back to the Tower in relatively tired and uncomfortable silence, Steve driving and Thor quiet beside him in the passenger seat and James fast asleep in the car seat in the back.  When they hit Midtown traffic, Steve groaned inwardly before sighing and sinking back into his seat in defeat.  Both of them smelled like petting zoo.  They were also fairly well covered in sticky dirt and worse.  And Thor was riding in his car in his briefs.  All in all, a total disaster.

Somehow, though, when Thor reached over to pick off the animal feed that was glued onto his shoulder by the now dried soda, all he could do was laugh.  Thor started to laugh, too.  They carried on like that for a minute or two, poking fun at each other and the fact that the two of them had been bested by a toddler and Thor had had his shorts ripped off by a goat, before calming back down.  “Please…  For the love of God, _please_ don’t tell anyone about this,” Steve said on a sigh.  “Not Bucky and especially not Tony or Clint.  Or Natasha.  I’m begging here.”

“This… _adventure_ shall not be repeated,” Thor swore, “by the honor of Odin’s blood.”

That lasted all of a couple hours.  Natasha was already home, of course, by the time he got there (because he had no manner of luck at all, apparently).  She took pity on him the moment she saw his sorry state, carrying in James who was on the verge of another tantrum.  Bless her and her patience because she took their son and got him washed and ready for bed while he dragged his exhausted body through all of the chores he hadn’t done.  When he was finally finished, he dragged his even more exhausted body into the shower.  And when he was done with that (he’d lingered in there far longer than he should have), he came into their bedroom to find her waiting for him on their bed, reading something on her phone.  “You wanna explain this text from Jane that I just received?  And I quote…  ‘Tell your husband that the next time he wants to get into my husband’s shorts, he doesn’t need to involve a goat.’”

Steve groaned and collapsed to his knees in front of her, pillowing his head on her lap.  “No,” he murmured into her thigh.

Natasha laughed.  “That bad, huh?”

“Worse.”

She laughed again, running her fingers through his damp hair.  “Figured it must have been for livestock to be involved.”  Steve only groaned again.  “Zoo?”  This one was a moan.  “You poor baby.”

Steve smiled, kissing her leg through her cotton nightgown.  They stayed like that for a while, the night calm and blessedly quiet around them.  Natasha stroked his hair gently, and that alone was almost enough to lull him to sleep.  Almost.  “Nat?”

“What?”

He hesitated a moment, not because he wasn’t sure (he’d been thinking about this for some time actually) but because he wasn’t sure what she would think.  They’d joked about it once or twice, but they’d never talked seriously.  He mustered some courage and went ahead.  “I was thinking…  Maybe we should have another baby.”

She was surprised.  He could feel it in the way she stiffened ever so slightly, in the way her fingers slowed in his hair.  “You’re the last person I’d expect to bring that up after a day like today.”

He picked his head up to gaze up at her.  He smiled.  “Well, it was nice before the zoo.  And I was thinking maybe James could use a little brother.”

“Or sister,” she reminded smartly.

“Or sister.  I grew up without any.”

“So did I.”

He smiled tiredly again.  “But I had Bucky.  And he’s done so much to make me who I am.  He was a playmate and competition and someone who made me feel better when I was down and who stood by me.  Someone who protected me.  The closest thing to a brother I could have ever hoped for.”

“I know,” she murmured.  Her hands resumed their tender caress.  “I found the same in Clint.  It wasn’t when I was a girl, I know, but…”

“It’s never too late.”  He gave a gentle smile.  “Clint’s done so much for you.”

“I know,” she said again.

Steve nuzzled closer to her.  “Siblings shape our lives, blood or not.  I just thought it would be such a gift to give to James.  And to give James to him.”  He kissed the flat of her stomach.

“Or her.”

“Or her.”  He kissed harder, longer.  “It would be more to love.  More for all of us to love.  I’ve never been so happy, Nat, as I am right now with you and our family.”  He felt her smile, felt the flutter of her muscles under his lips.  “Besides, James was such a huge surprise.  Might be fun doing it with a purpose.”

She swatted him on the head lightly.  “Really?”

“One of my better lines, I know.”

She cupped his face, her eyes surprisingly teary.  For a moment, he worried that he’d pressured her into something she didn’t want.  But he was being a stupid idiot.  She cocked an eyebrow, grinning brightly despite her tears.  “Well, the first one we made turned out pretty cute,” she managed.  “So yeah.  We can probably do that again.”  Warmth blossomed through Steve.  Warmth and love and so much adoration for her.  “And since our son is one hundred percent _your_ son, maybe your bossy serum-enhanced genes will let this second one have some tiny smidgen of me in her.”

“Or him.”

She swatted him again.  “Or him.”

He grinned, too, so happy and excited, and leaned up to push her down onto their bed.  He pressed his weight over her, capturing her lips in a long kiss.  She started pulling his t-shirt up, her hands roaming his back, kissing him deeper.  But before he could lose himself in that, in her, her cell phone vibrated like crazy from where she’d dropped it on the comforter beside them.  Steve groaned.  “Seriously?”

On the screen, there was a flood of text messages from the rest of the team, Tony and Clint mostly, with pictures of goats and pictures of shorts and pictures of goats eating shorts and “NOM NOM NOM” (whatever that meant!) and a Photoshopped image of a goat saluting right next to Captain America in his “I WANT YOU” pose only “I WANT YOU” was replaced with “EAT MY SHORTS” and…  “Remind me never to go anywhere with Thor _ever again._ ”


	24. It's Alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This is the last one in the trilogy that was started in chapter 8 ("Home Safe") and continued in chapter 15 ("No Way to Understand"). Thanks for reading, everyone!

The ride back from the hospital was quiet.  Bucky drove, and he kept glancing in the rearview mirror at Natasha.  She felt as helpless and worried as he looked.  Steve sat beside her.  He was incredibly pale, face gaunt and haggard, form slumped and noticeably trembling.  Natasha pressed close to him, his hand in hers where she held it in her lap.  His shivering aside, she could tell how much he was hurting sitting upright.  His hand flexed in hers like he was trying not to squeeze her fingers too hard while trying to find some relief and comfort.  She watched him, watched the sweat gather on his hairline, watched him struggle.  “You sure about this?” she asked softly, trying not to let her own opinions color her tone, because she wasn’t sure.  She wasn’t sure he was ready to come home, that he was well enough to be released from the doctors’ care.  It had been two weeks since Steve had almost been killed when a section of a HYDRA base the Avengers had been attacking had collapsed on him.  He’d barely survived the severe internal bleeding, horrific burns, and crushed bones.  If it hadn’t been for the serum and his sheer determination, he wouldn’t have.  He’d spent days in the ICU, hardly clinging to a thread of life, and when he’d woken up from the coma in which he’d lingered after surgery, he’d spent another ten days or so recuperating and regaining his strength.  Nobody, not the nurses or the doctors or their friends or Natasha herself, had thought last week that this would be possible, like him leaving the hospital alive and on the road to recovery had been some unattainable dream.  But here they were.

Natasha had a sinking suspicion that Steve’s decision to come home so quickly had to do with her.  She had been running herself ragged, first when they hadn’t been sure that Steve would live and then when they’d realized how much help he was going to need to get better.  Balancing time at home with his needs had worn her even further, on top of the awful stress of nearly losing her husband.  Despite how much he was struggling with simple things like walking, Steve had noticed.  And then he’d argued that there was nothing more the doctors could do for him.  The serum would heal the rest of his injuries.  He couldn’t get sick, so a sterile environment wasn’t a concern.  Pain medication (and all other medications, for that matter) had no effect on him, so there was no relief no matter where he was.  Aside from monitoring him (and he had a whole team of superheroes and his wife to do that), they couldn’t do anything more for him.  Natasha (and Bucky and Tony and Clint and Thor and _everyone_ ) had been reluctant to agree, but even the doctors had to admit he was right.  When the nurses had even suggested that moving him to a familiar, comfortable location where he was surrounded by his friends and most importantly his family might aid in his convalescence, that had pretty much sealed the deal.

But she was worried.  After days of effort, Steve was walking again, but his steps were slow, unsteady, and tenderly taken.  He was still covered in rather extensive bandages; even two weeks after being wounded, the worst of his injuries were far from healed.  He was still coughing when he breathed sometimes, the damage to his lungs lingering.  He tired easily.  And he was in constant pain.  He was hurting and there was nothing they could do to make it better.  He was hurting _all the time_ just like he was now and it was _normal_ for him.  That was where they were at this point.  Pain was normal.  That was the worst part.

No, the worst part was that he’d almost _died_ because he was Captain America.  She’d almost lost him.  Her children almost lost their father.  That was _terrifying_.

Steve hadn’t answered, suffering through his discomfort silently.  That infuriated her as much as it frightened her, but _none_ of this was his fault.  She needed patience, now more than ever before.  Now when she had none left to give.  “Steve?”

“I’m alright,” he gasped.  “I can do this.  Want to go home.  Be with the boys.”

She knew that was true.  Even though someone had brought the boys to see him every day since he’d been moved from the ICU, it had been difficult and traumatic for them, particularly James who was old enough to understand.  At home, things would be easier and less restricted.  She was concerned that the boys wouldn’t take enough care around their father until he was well enough to participate in the things they always did, wrestling and horsing around and playing.  And she was worried she wasn’t going to be able to provide the level of care Steve needed.  He still needed _so much._   He couldn’t walk unassisted.  He couldn’t dress or wash himself.  Bucky would be there to help.  He’d already proclaimed he was going to spend the next few days at their place, sleeping on the fold-out couch in the den, so she’d have an extra set of hands at all times.  And the others would be in and out.  They were there now, getting things ready.  It would be alright.  She was trying to tell herself that anyway.

Bucky caught her gaze in the mirror again, his eyes tight with worry.  She looked away, jabbing her teeth into her lower lip to keep herself from finally freeing the sob itching in her throat.  It had been lodged there since they’d left the hospital, since she’d seen Steve dressed in jeans and a loose t-shirt, normal clothes, for the first time in forever and realized how weak and broken he still was.  She felt like she should be thrilled and relieved and extremely happy to have him coming home, and part of her was.  But she was so hurt, so angry and upset and everything that she’d finally let herself begin to _feel_ was yanking at her resolve…  “Are you okay?”

Steve’s soft question seemed thunderous in the quiet.  She turned to him, found him watching her with worried eyes that weren’t quite focused, like it was hard for him to think beyond his own sad state.  She forced a smile to her face.  “Of course I am,” she lied.  She leaned closer, kissing his cheek and then his lips carefully. 

He wasn’t assuaged.  He was always so proficient at reading her.  “Are you… are _you_ sure about this?  I didn’t even ask…”

“If I wanted you home?”  She made her smile brighter.  “How hard did you hit your head again?  It must have been pretty hard for you to ask me something that dumb.”

He smiled weakly.  “I just…”

“Don’t,” Bucky warned.  “You don’t ‘just’ anything.  When you get home, you’re gonna kiss your kids and eat a nice dinner that doesn’t taste like hospital cafeteria swill and sleep in your own bed.  You’re gonna get the rest of the way better.  Don’t worry about anything.”

Steve nodded, but his eyes were wet, like the emotions _he’d_ been holding back were seeping close to the surface as well.  Natasha lifted his hand to her mouth, kissed it gently, and tried to be strong.

A few minutes later Bucky was driving along the familiar, secluded roads of their neighborhood.  Soon they were turning onto their street and then down their driveway.  Their house was set back, and she was more grateful than ever for the quiet and privacy.  There were cars ahead, but they’d been parked in a way that left the position closest to the door empty.  Bucky pulled into the spot and turned the car off.  He was out of his seat quickly and coming to the back to help Steve.  Steve, however, was reluctant to get out.  Those tears in his eyes got thicker.  “It’s alright,” Natasha promised.

Steve was shaking harder, this time with emotion.  “Just didn’t think I’d ever…”  His voice failed him.  He tried a smile, but it only made Natasha’s heart break.  “You know?”

“I know,” she assured.  She kissed his hand again, donning a better smile for his sake.  He forced a nod, wiping at his eyes a little, and with a deep breath and a grimace, he opened the car door.  Bucky helped him to his feet, a slow, careful process.  Natasha grabbed the bag that had bandages, spare clothes, and other paraphernalia they’d brought to the hospital over the last couple of weeks.  With Bucky on one side, Steve’s good (or at least better) arm slung over his shoulder, and Natasha on his other, they limped up the walk to the front door.

The second the door opened, the boys were running, James full tilt and Joseph toddling clumsily after him.  “Easy,” Bucky warned instantly, blocking access to Steve.  “Easy!”

Clint and Tony were there.  Clint grabbed Joseph and scooped him off the floor (an action about which the little guy was none too pleased).  Tony lurched to get to James, darting worried eyes at Steve.  “Hold on, James.  Let them get in first.”

James had a piece of construction paper in his hand, folded like a little letter.  He looked caught between disappointment, horror, and excitement.  This whole experience had been like this.  A chaotic mess.  A rollercoaster that had left everyone dizzy and aching.  He held onto Tony’s restraining arm, watching with wide eyes as Bucky helped Steve limp inside toward the couch.  Sam was there as well, quick to help with their task.  Together the two of them got Steve situated on the couch.  Steve wasn’t quite strong enough to stifle a whine of pain completely, which stilled everyone and everything until he regained his composure.  Bucky had his hand on Steve’s shoulder, murmuring something comfortingly that Natasha couldn’t quite hear as she traded the bag of things to Clint for Joseph.  Joseph squirmed and struggled mightily to get down, but five years of dealing with serum-enhanced kids had taught her to hold on hard and tight.

Once Steve had gotten his breathing under control, Tony let James go.  Steve gave him a weak smile.  “Hey,” he greeted his son wearily.

James’ face crumpled.  He ran the distance between them, and Natasha (and everyone else) was about to warn him about being careful, but he was smart enough to realize.  He climbed up on the couch and tucked himself into the warmth of Steve’s side.  Steve winced but only pulled him closer, kissing his mussed blond hair a few times as James cried.  “It’s alright,” he swore.  “It’s alright now.”

James said something no one could understand into Steve’s shirt, his little fists balled into the fabric.  His voice was all distorted by gulping breaths and tears.  Steve seemed to get it, though, because he murmured something in turn into James’ hair, and the little boy nodded, clutching his father tighter.  Natasha could barely stand to watch it, the moment taking her right back to when she’d first brought the boys to see Steve in the hospital.  This was still so scary, even now when the immediate danger was long over.  Their sweet, blissful, _innocent_ lives had been shattered, and despite James’ tender age, he understood that.  He’d been there when his father had been barely conscious, barely recovered enough to even smile at him.  He’d seen his mother cry.  He’d watched his uncles and aunts worry and talk quietly so they thought he couldn’t hear them make plans for the worst.

When Bucky sat on Steve’s right and opened his arms, James went over, and that made room for Joseph.  Natasha carefully handed the armful of wriggling toddler to Sam, and Sam handed him to Steve.  The other men were even more attentive because Joseph was too young to know to be careful.  If his little bare foot bumped into Steve’s sore midsection, he kept it under wraps, snuggling the baby closer to his neck.  As small as James still looked against his father’s large frame, Joseph appeared tiny.  He babbled happily, grubby fingers on Steve’s chin and scrunching them in the beginnings of the beard framing his jaw.  At least he’d never remember this.  That was some small consolation.  Steve’s scars would fade.  James’ would, too, in time, slipping into hazy bad memories.  Joseph hopefully wouldn’t have any.  In the end, there would only be the scars on their hearts, on hers and Steve’s and Bucky’s.  On the souls of everyone who’d foolishly thought Captain America and the Avengers were invincible.

Natasha watched until she couldn’t anymore.  Clint followed her to the kitchen.  She puttered around uselessly in some vague attempt at starting dinner.  “Laura had me bring a couple of trays of lasagna,” he said quietly.  She didn’t hear him at first.  She felt so oddly flustered, weightless, and useless.  Everything was wrong, alien, not where it should be and not her own.  Clint grabbed her arm gently while she passed and stilled her.  “Nat, I took care of it.  Come on.  You’re like a chicken with your head cut off,” he joked lightly.

“Clint,” she whispered.  She wanted to say so much, cry and scream and rail against everything that had happened to them.  Clint had been hurt, too.  And Tony.  And Sam.  Even Thor.  No one had walked away from this unscathed, and when she forced herself to look at the yellow and brown bruises still marring his face, the anger came back.

Clint just smiled though, as weary and worn as it was.  “He’s home,” he said.  “He’s home, and he’s safe.  It’s alright.”  He pulled Natasha to him, wrapping his arms around her in a warm, strong hug.  She didn’t know if he was saying that to comfort her or comfort himself or just to try to add some closure to this nightmare.  Natasha looked over his shoulder, watching where Steve still sat on the couch with Joseph snuggled into him and James half on his lap and half on Bucky’s and Sam laughing about something with the both of them.  Bucky was smiling, so relieved, his eyes a little wet no matter how many times he wiped at them and tried to hide it.  Tony was joking a little too forcefully, almost awkwardly when it normally came so easy to him, because he too was struggling to hide how much this ordeal had shaken him.  It was almost like Steve being home didn’t seem quite real, and accepting it for truth would make it vanish from their grasping fingers.  They were clinging to it all the same, just as James and Joseph had their little hands tight in their father’s shirt.  Clint rubbed his hand down her back tenderly.  “It’s alright now,” he swore.

_Is it?_

She stayed in the kitchen, unable to deal with _anything._   The others bore the brunt of the evening, Sam distracting the kids, Bucky hovering around Steve like a mother hen, Tony surprisingly adept at being a go-fer and fetching water and some pillows for Steve’s back and whatever else they wanted or needed.  When the lasagna was done, Clint got everything together, and they ate dinner.  The conversation stayed light.  In order to spare Steve the effort, they ate in the living room (which Natasha normally disliked, but in this case she gladly made an exception).  The lasagna was delicious, meaty and cheesy, but no one ate much of it.  Steve had hardly a piece.  Natasha had noticed over the last couple of days that his appetite came and went unpredictably.  The others were worried, and she was, too, but she didn’t press it.  She made herself realize yet again that expectations had to be kept within reason.  This was the same as before when she’d tempered her hopes as she’d stood with Steve and held him and watched him sweat and battle through those first difficult steps with the physical therapist offering useless encouragement.  And again when the doctors had told her it would be weeks, if not months, before Steve would be capable of rejoining the team in action.  And _again_ when one of the psychologists they’d called to consult mentioned that Steve would likely suffer through an entire gamut of emotions and problems, from denial to a flattened affect to nervous anxiety to repressed memories of the experience.  An entire spectrum of PTSD.  It all had to be within reason.

Her patience was spent.

After dinner, Sam cleaned up.  Clint and Tony helped put the boys to bed.  James hadn’t wanted to go, clinging to Steve and Steve somewhat clinging back, until Bucky had told him he’d be by in a minute to read him a story.  Steve had smothered both the boys in kisses before they’d gone with their uncles.  “You ready to do this, Rogers?” Bucky asked, smiling gently.  “It’s your bedtime, too.”

Steve looked absolutely exhausted, slumped into the couch with his hands limp across his belly.  His efforts to appear composed for his sons’ sakes had withered with his energy and strength, and now he was grimacing and shaking again.  “Is it?” he gasped with a pathetic laugh.

Natasha wanted to scream.  “Yep,” Bucky calmly responded.

“’kay,” Steve murmured.  “Sleep here.”

“Nope,” Bucky said.  “Gonna get you washed up and all those bandages changed, just like the docs said.  Then you can sleep.”

Steve blinked hazily.  “My bed, right?”

“Yep.  So up we go.”  Steve cried out as Bucky pulled his arm up to get him standing.

Natasha rushed to his side to help him.  “Easy,” she whispered.  “We’ve got you.”

“Nat…” Steve whimpered.

“We’ve got you.”

They helped him limp over to the steps.  They took them slowly, one at a time.  Perhaps it would have been better for Bucky simply to carry him up, easier at least, but Steve was proud and it was clear he wanted to try, no matter how ridiculous it was.  He did alright for most of it, but toward the end he slumped against Bucky and let his eyes slip shut.  “Come on, pal,” Bucky said.  “Come on.  Last couple.”  Natasha let them have this moment.  She might be Steve’s wife, but there were some ways in which Bucky would always be closer to him.  Moments like these, echoes of times long past and memories from a different life, weren’t hers to have.  If there was one thing Bucky Barnes knew, it was how to carry Steve Rogers.  “Come on.”

They made it to the top.  Where Steve had been making some attempt to hold his own weight before, his energy was utterly spent now, and he staggered against Bucky.  Still they managed to get him down to the master bedroom and into their bathroom.  Natasha and Bucky didn’t speak, barely sharing a glance or two, but they were completely in sync with each other as they sat Steve on the edge of the tub.  She ran the warm water in the bath while he helped Steve out of his clothes.  Together they undressed the multitude of bandages, revealing the array of awful wounds that neither of them chose to see.  With soft washcloths they carefully sponged away the old and fresh blood and sweat.  Bucky left to gather some pajamas as Natasha washed Steve’s hair.  “That feels better, doesn’t it?” she said softly as she carefully rinsed him clean.

“Nat…” Steve whispered.

“What is it?”

He licked his lips.  He was barely aware, barely awake.  “’m sorry.”

How many times had he told her that since he’d come back to her?  She smiled through the burning in her eyes.  “Told you not to worry about that,” she gently admonished, mostly to hide just how close she was to losing it.  She toweled his hair dry, and then she lowered herself to kneel between his legs.  She kissed his lips, hungering to feel him as he had been before everything had happened.  He tasted like tears.  “I love you.”

Steve smiled feebly.  “Love you, too.”

She stared at him, at his half-lidded eyes filled with pain and regret, and suddenly everything came to the surface.  She jabbed her teeth into her lower lip, this time until she tasted blood, but even that wasn’t enough to quell her feelings.  “Steve.”  She cupped his jaw and lifted his face a bit so their eyes met more firmly.  “If I…  If I asked you to stop, would you?”

“Stop?”

“Quit being Captain America.”

Apparently he was more with it than she’d thought.  He winced, his eyes sharpening.  “What?”

This wasn’t the time to be talking about this, not when he was this low, and she felt rotten and cruel for bringing it up now.  But from the moment she’d received the horrified call from Maria Hill two weeks ago that the Avengers had walked into a trap, she’d been thinking about this.  It had been lurking in the back of her mind, something she’d known was there but hadn’t had the strength to face.  Now it was too hard to ignore.  “Give up the shield.  Or give it to Sam or to Bucky.  Let someone else do it.”  Steve flinched again, giving a reflexive jerk of his head.  Natasha was equal parts angry at him and horrified that she was upsetting him.  “I’m not saying that you have to walk away from everything.  Fury’s wanted you to play a bigger role in running SHIELD for ages.  Why not do that?  Call the shots from HQ.  Take a step back.  You don’t have to be out there risking your life all the time.”

“Natasha…”

She pressed herself closer.  “We have kids.  Babies, still.  Joseph’s just a baby.  And they had to…”  She couldn’t make herself finish.  “They _shouldn’t_ have to.  You don’t know how… _terrifying_ this was.”

“I know,” he whimpered.  “I know!”

“I can’t.  I can’t do this anymore.  I can’t have this happen again.  You can’t have it happen to me.  I’ll quit, too.”

“Nat, please…”

“You’ve _done_ your fair share.  More than your fair share.  You’ve done so much, sacrificed so much, for the world.  You don’t need to do more or give anymore.  You don’t need to.  _We don’t need to._ ”

The tears in Steve’s eyes finally spilled over.  She didn’t know if it was from pain or exhaustion or what she was suggesting, but she felt terrible at seeing them (and just a bit vindicated, because he _didn’t_ know what sort of hellish nightmare this had been.  And feeling that sick justification made this all even worse).  “Natasha… I can’t just…  What about the team?  What about…”

“There’s nothing more important than our family.”

“I know that!”

“Then you _have_ to quit.  I can’t do this again.  I can’t!”  His arms found their way around her, trembling with emotion and exhaustion, and she melted into them.  She could feel how badly he was shaking.  She was shaking, too.  And the tears were coming.  She couldn’t stop them anymore.  He couldn’t, either.  They hadn’t cried like this throughout everything that had happened, not together, not both of them clinging to each other as if they were all they had and losing themselves.  She didn’t think they’d _ever_ cried like this.  Through everything, when one had been hurt or lost or weak, the other had always been strong.  But Steve was too broken and she was too ruined and there was no way through this but to cry, gasping breaths and shuddering sobs and hot tears.

Sometime later, Bucky finally came back with Steve’s pajamas.  He paused at the doorway.  Natasha was too tired and beaten down to care that he was seeing her so weak.  It was too much effort to jerk away from Steve, to hide her tears.  “Everything okay?” Bucky asked, like it could be.

“Yes,” she said, finally pulling back from Steve’s shoulder.  He looked so defeated.  She’d never seen him like this.  That alone was enough for her to scrounge up some strength from somewhere.  She smiled, wiped the wet tracks from his cheeks with the pads of her thumbs.  Kissed his lips again.

“Sorry I took so long, but James wanted me,” Bucky said.  He looked uncomfortable and anxious.  “I tucked him in, but he’s waiting for you.”

Natasha nodded.  “Can you…”

“Sure.  I’ll get him squared away,” Bucky promised.

She made it out into the hallway before the tears came back again.  _Pull it together._   She leaned wearily into the wall, trying to gather herself, trying to suck in breath after breath to find one that would steady her.  _Pull it together._   She couldn’t let James see her like this, so she went into Joseph’s room first.  Tony was still sitting in the rocker even though the baby was already asleep in his crib.  “You okay?” he whispered.  Natasha didn’t think she had enough of a voice to answer, so she only nodded, coming to the crib.  The baby was peaceful, laying on his tummy, red hair still a tad damp from his bath.  She swept her hand over it and down his back, feeling his breaths and finding far more comfort in his than in her own.  She stood a moment, struggling to keep going, before turning to the door.  Tony was right there.  He drew her into a hug, and she didn’t resist.  “It’s going to be–”

“I know,” she said.  She pulled away and manufactured another fake smile.  “I know.”

He let her go, and she went out to James’ room.  Clint was there, and when he saw her coming, he stepped aside.  “You want me to stay?”

“Bucky’s going to.”

He nodded, clearly torn between wanting to be of help and make sure she was alright and going home.  She let him hold her again, too, let him kiss her forehead and whisper a promise or two.  Then she slipped inside James’ darkened bedroom.

He was waiting for her in his bed.  His Yankees cap that Steve had bought him when he’d taken him to the game on Father’s Day was on the floor next to his bed.  That seemed like a lifetime ago, even if it was only a few weeks.  Seeing it made her eyes burn again.  She wiped them, crouching to pick up the discarded hat and set it on his nightstand.  _Pull it together.  Be strong._ And of course he asked the question she couldn’t bear to answer.  Like Steve apologizing, he’d asked it so many times over the last two weeks.  “Mommy, is Daddy okay?”

It was an extraordinary thing, that as a mother she always had the capacity to be what her children needed.  No matter how fatigued or defeated she was, for them she always found the courage to be brave and the will to be strong.  She knelt beside his bed.  “Of course he is, baby.  He’s just…  He needs some more time to get better.  That’s all.”

James frowned.  She brushed his hair off his forehead.  “When’s he gonna be able to play with me again?”

“Very soon,” she assured.  “We just have to be patient.  Okay?  You just keep telling him you love him and keep giving him hugs and being careful around him, and he’ll be back to normal before you know it.”  James nodded.  Natasha smiled at him.  “You’ve been so brave about this, James.  I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m glad he’s home,” James whispered.

“Me, too.”

She kissed him goodnight, lingering probably longer than she should have to make sure he drifted off into a peaceful sleep.  When she emerged from his room, Clint, Tony, and Sam were saying their goodnights to Bucky, offering immediate help should he call.  Natasha slipped by them unnoticed and headed to their bedroom.

The lights were off.  The windows were open, letting the cool air of the summer night blow inside.  Steve was laying in their bed, freshly dressed in pajamas with his injuries neatly bandaged, eyes closed and breathing fairly evenly.  She could see the glistening of fresh tears and sweat on his face, though.  Bucky had picked up his clothes from before and set them on one of the chairs in the sitting area by the windows.  Something had fallen, probably out of Steve’s jeans pocket.  Despite how tired and overwhelmed she was, she padded over and picked it up.

It was the piece of construction paper James had had when they’d come in the house.  He’d obviously drawn a little something for Steve earlier that evening, probably with Tony’s or Clint’s help.  There were stick figures of her (evidenced by the “MOMMY” boldly written in crayon above her and the red hair he’d added) and Joseph was in her arms (labeled “JOE”).  James had drawn himself with a big “ME” over it.  He’d colored in their house, bright white with big, green trees around it.  And he’d drawn Steve with “DADDY” scrawled beside it, Steve very clearly holding his shield.  James had seen it many, many times, and it was unmistakable, red and blue circles with a silver star in the middle.  At the top of the page, he’d written “WELCOME HOME.  LOVE, JAMES”.

She couldn’t look away from the stick figure of Steve with his shield.  Just as the belief that Steve should give up being Captain America had been slithering about the back of her mind for days, so, too, had all the reasons why he couldn’t.  It wasn’t right.  It wasn’t who he was, not to the world and their enemies, not to the team and their friends.  Not to her and not to their children.  As Thor had told her the day Steve had awoken from his coma and she’d brought the boys to see him, this was Steve’s legacy, and their children would understand that.  James did already.  It came with sacrifice, Lord knew that.  But this was what it was, and it was worth it.

And it was just like she had told Steve, the night after they’d gone to the baseball game when Steve had been worried about James wanting to be like him.  _“He only knows what you are.  So of course he wants to be like you.  You’re his hero.  You’re his dad.”_   She couldn’t ask him to be anything other than what he was, no matter how much it hurt.  She wouldn’t.  She sniffled, smiling at her son’s drawing, before placing on the little table beside the chairs.  Then she came over to their bed and laid down beside Steve.  He wasn’t as peaceful as she’d hoped, rigid and trembling still with shivers and pain.  She drew the duvet lightly up over them both.  When he felt her carefully settle next to him, he gasped a little sob.  “I’ll do whatever you want,” he said.  “I’ll do anything…”

“No,” she hushed.  “I don’t want you to quit.  I didn’t mean it.  I was just scared.  Scared and tired.  But I’m not scared anymore.  And I’m sorry I said it.”

“’tasha…”

“It’s alright.”  He relaxed as she held him, turning his body a bit so she could get her arms around him.  “You’re home.  And I’ve got you.  It’s alright.”  He sobbed into the pillow, and she whispered comfort, touching him wherever she could to ease his pain.  It was late and she was tired and so very raw inside.  Tonight would be difficult.  She wouldn’t sleep much, not with him so injured and weak, definitely not with him in so much pain.  It would be like this for days, maybe longer, but it would get better.  It would get better because he was Captain America and because she was his wife and they had children who they loved more than anything.  Patience and tempered expectations and so much faith.  They’d get through this, and they’d be stronger than ever before because of it.  She kissed his hair and held him tighter.  It was all going to be fine.  He was home, and they were together.  “It’s alright now.”


	25. Big Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This one answers a prompt for James meeting Joseph :-).

James might have only been four, but he knew a few things.  He knew he liked chocolate ice cream more than vanilla.  He knew he hated vegetables.  He knew his letters and his numbers, and he knew how to write his name and a few other words.  He knew he loved to draw.  He knew he loved his mother and his father and that they loved him very much.  He knew they loved each other (that was what it meant when Mommy kissed Daddy or Daddy made Mommy laugh or they snuggled together on the couch while he played with his toys).  He knew he liked playing in the backyard with Daddy and Mommy reading him his favorite books every night before bed and them both taking him places like the park and the beach and to visit his (many) uncles.  And he knew he liked having his parents all to himself.

The way he understood it, that was about to change.

He didn’t like that.

There was a baby growing in Mommy’s tummy.  That was what she and Daddy had told him.  At first he hadn’t been able to tell.  Mommy was still just Mommy, sweet and strong and the best thing in the whole, wide world.  But all the sudden one day Mommy was sick.  And then she was sick for a while off and on.  She was tired a lot, too.  James was worried, but Daddy said it was okay, that sometimes mommies got tired and sick like that when they had babies in their tummies.  James supposed that made sense.  His tummy hurt sometimes (not too often), and it seemed like a really small place to have a baby.  Mommy’s stomach got bigger, though.  Pretty soon it was big enough for him to see it, and Daddy told James that it wasn’t just a baby in there.  It was a _brother._

He didn’t know what that meant exactly.  He hadn’t asked, but Daddy had explained anyway.  Like Cooper was Lila’s brother, the new baby would be _James’_ brother and James would be his.  He still didn’t understand, but that was okay, he supposed.  The new baby wasn’t coming for a few months yet, so life was going on as normal.   He could figure it out later.  He played and laughed and learned.  Mommy and Daddy talked about the new baby with Uncle Clint and Uncle Bucky and Uncle Tony a lot.  James could tell they were excited, and that made him excited, too.  Whatever this brother was, it had to be something important.  Something that had Mommy smiling so broadly when she thought no one was looking and Daddy walking with an extra spring in his step.  If it was making them this happy, then a brother was something good, right?

He thought so at first.  And he tried to make sense of it.  He paid closer attention the next time they went to Uncle Clint’s and Aunt Laura’s for dinner.  He watched Cooper and Lila.  They were both older than him, but they always included him in their games, so it was pretty easy to spy.  To him, it seemed like a brother was a combination of a pest and a problem.  Cooper teased Lila almost continually.  He was always getting in her way, playing with her toys just to bother her, causing her trouble, causing her to get _into_ trouble.  And she was doing the same to him.  Aunt Laura was constantly reprimanding them for their bickering and fighting, looking tired and frustrated herself.  Was that what a brother was?  An enemy?  Someone he was going to always be fighting with?

He needed to figure it out.  When Mommy or Daddy took him to the park, he spotted kids who he was pretty certain were siblings and he watched them, too.  Again, lots of fighting.  Once he saw one boy with brown hair help another boy with the same brown hair get back into their parents’ car at his mom’s request, but it sure seemed like a lot of work, and this boy’s mommy was kind of nagging and he was kind of complaining.  So that didn’t seem good.  A brother meant you had to help.  And a brother meant sharing.  He didn’t like sharing.  Sure, it was okay once in a while with other kids or with Lila and Cooper.  But sharing _his_ toys?  Or sharing Mommy and Daddy?  No.

Once he started realizing that, though, that there was fighting and helping and _sharing_ , he saw it a lot.  At the grocery store, when Daddy took him to buy Mommy something she was “craving” (whatever that meant).  At the baby store, when Mommy and Daddy went to buy things they needed (and boy did they need a lot of things for this new baby.  Uncle Bucky thought it was ridiculous how much stuff kept piling into the house).  At the zoo when Uncle Thor and Daddy brought him (Daddy looked terrified the entire time, and Uncle Thor kept laughing, and even though James didn’t get the joke, he laughed, too).  _Everywhere_ there were brothers causing trouble for other kids.  Everywhere there was sharing and bickering.  He asked Daddy about it, about why brothers seemed to be such a problem.  Daddy just laughed lightly and said, “You’re going to be the big brother, James.  So it’s your job to take care of the baby.”

Then there were other things.  Mommy’s tummy kept getting bigger, and Daddy started saying things like, “you have to be careful around Mommy, James” and “James, don’t kick Mommy in the stomach”.  Did brothers mean you had to be careful all the time?  That you couldn’t play anymore?  He wasn’t happy about that.  Daddy was just as fun as ever, rough-housing with him and wrestling and running him around atop his shoulders.  Uncle Bucky was, too.  But Mommy spent a lot of time resting now.  She got tired easily.  Other people told him things, too.  Uncle Clint.  “Leave Mommy alone for a little while, Jimmy.”  Uncle Bucky.  “Come on, kiddo, I’ll play with you so Mom can get off her feet.”  Uncle Sam.  “Why don’t you come sit with me, James?  Draw me a picture.”  Uncle Thor.  “Your mother’s body is hard at work creating life, James.  You must allow her some relief.”  _Making life?_ Even Uncle Tony.  “Give your mother a break, Jimbo.  She’s working hard while she’s hardly working.”

What did that even _mean_?  What was this brother doing to her?

And _more_ things.  Like he had to change rooms because they needed his room for the baby.  This actually wasn’t so bad, because the room he got was bigger and Uncle Clint and Aunt Laura came over to help Daddy paint it blue, decorate it full of cars and superheroes, and move all his things.  But the new room was further away from Mommy and Daddy’s room because he was “the big boy now” (they kept saying that.  The big brother.  The big boy.  What did _that_ mean?).  He wasn’t sure he wanted to be a big boy or a big brother.  He didn’t like that Mommy was tired all the time and that Daddy was busy getting things ready.  He didn’t like that things were different now, and he didn’t understand why.  He was still excited, but suddenly this was more scary than exciting.  Pretty soon, things started changing even more.  Now everybody was talking about it being “time”.  Time for what?  “For the baby in Mommy’s tummy to come out,” Daddy explained.  “He’s gonna be born soon.”

That made him worry.  He didn’t like worrying.  “Is it gonna be okay, Daddy?”

Daddy smiled and hugged him tight.  “’Course it is.  It’ll be new and different for a while, but everything’s gonna be fine.  Everything’s gonna be great, James.”

Great was okay, but he didn’t want new or different.

But it was inevitable.  And, all of the sudden, it was happening.  James woke up one morning to an empty house.  Mommy and Daddy were gone, and Uncle Bucky was snoozing on the couch.  Frightened and nothing at all like the brave big boy Mommy kept calling him, he climbed up with Uncle Bucky and snuggled close.  Uncle Bucky stirred, cracking open his eyes, and looked down at him.  “Whassa matter?”

“Where are Mommy and Daddy?”

“Oh.  _Oh._   It’s fine, buddy.  Mom and Dad went to the hospital.  They left a couple of hours ago.”

A hospital.  That made James even more scared.  “Isn’t that where sick people go?”

“Yeah, but not always.  Sometimes really good things can happen in a hospital.  The baby’s gonna be born.  For real this time.”  Uncle Bucky smiled.  “Don’t be worried.  You were born in a hospital, too.”  He pulled James close.  “And you know what?  Coming to meet you, seeing you for the first time, that was one of the best days of my life.  Today’s gonna be another day like that.”  Uncle Bucky usually made him feel better whenever he was sad, but this time it only made him _more_ worried.  “Come on.  Let’s get you dressed and I’ll get you some breakfast.”

Uncle Bucky made eggs and pancakes.  They were delicious.  The two of them ate, and then they went to the playground.  James ran around there, and it was easy to forget that Mommy and Daddy were at the hospital.  Uncle Bucky let him play a long time, but he kept checking his cellphone, like he was waiting for something.  Once or twice he called someone (Uncle Clint or Uncle Tony, James thought), but he just smiled when he got off the phone and said, “Not yet.”  James didn’t know what was happening exactly.  The baby was coming.  That was scary.  But Uncle Bucky didn’t seem afraid, so it was okay.  Wasn’t it?

After the park, they went to get lunch at a burger place that Uncle Bucky and Daddy liked (Mommy didn’t, but James secretly did, too).  Uncle Bucky got them both hamburgers and a heap of fries and two milkshakes.  They ate.  Uncle Bucky realized he was scared without him ever saying it (that was a great thing about Uncle Bucky – he _always_ knew those sorts of things), so he told him a funny story about him and Daddy trying to bake themselves some cookies because Uncle Bucky’s Mommy wouldn’t.  Daddy got covered in flour and they both got into tons of trouble.  And he told a story about how Daddy threw up on the Cyclone at Coney Island but thankfully it had missed Uncle Bucky because Uncle Bucky would have never forgiven him otherwise.  And another story about how Uncle Bucky accidentally left his schoolbooks once so Daddy ran all the way back to their apartment building to get them since Uncle Bucky couldn’t because he’d sprained his ankle the day before.  James liked Uncle Bucky’s stories about him and Daddy when they were kids.  They were always funny.

But it didn’t take long for him to be reminded about _the brother._   When they were leaving the restaurant, there was a bigger boy trying to play his handheld gaming system, and the brother was there, pestering him, trying to push the buttons, trying to butt in.  “Cut it out!  Stop it!  You’re so annoying!”  The bickering went all the way to the family’s car.  “Go away!”

James watched, holding Uncle Bucky’s hand while he talked on the phone again.  The brother was terrible, a monster, and James wrinkled his nose and bit his lip and decided that he didn’t want or need one.  He’d just tell Mommy and Daddy that.  He’d just tell them, and Mommy and Daddy loved him so they’d listen and there wouldn’t be anything to worry about.  They’d leave the hospital without the brother.  Nothing would be new.  Nothing different.  He’d just tell him he didn’t want a new baby and that would be that.  “He’s here, James.  The baby’s been born!”

Oh.

Uncle Bucky was _beaming_.  “Your Momma’s fine.  The baby’s fine.  Everyone’s fine.”  He wasn’t.  He wasn’t fine.  “Come on.  Dad said you can come, so let’s get to the hospital.”  Uncle Bucky took him to the car and helped him into his car seat because he’d gone limp and unhappy.  Then he drove.  James sat in the back, watching crossly out the window.  Uncle Bucky kept looking at him in the rearview mirror, but James didn’t look back at him.  It was really quiet for a while.  Then Uncle Bucky turned the radio off and he sighed.  “Okay, kiddo. What’s the matter?  You scowl any harder and your face is gonna get stuck that way.”

There wasn’t any reason to lie.  Besides, Mommy said lying was bad.  “I don’t want a brother.”

Uncle Bucky glanced at him again.  “You don’t, huh.”

“No.”

“How come?”

“Daddy said things are gonna be new and different.  I don’t want new and different.”

Uncle Bucky shrugged a little.  “Fair enough.”  He turned onto the expressway.  “New and different can be scary, and it’s hard to be sure about it.  But it’s not bad.  Sometimes it’s even real good.  Sometimes it’s _better_ than what you had before.”

James pouted and frowned more.  He didn’t care if his face got stuck that way.  “This isn’t.”

“You sure about that?  You haven’t tried it yet.  How do you know?”  That sounded like what Mommy always said when she wanted him to try new foods.  Vegetables, mostly, and they were always about as gross as they looked.  “It’s hard being careful around a new baby.  But that’s what you gotta do because you’re an older brother.”  He didn’t want to hear that.  Uncle Bucky paused.  James glanced at him and saw him smiling a little.  “You know, I remember feeling like that when my sisters were born.”

James was surprised.  “You have sisters, Uncle Buck?”

“Had ’em.”  James didn’t understand that.  He’d never seen any of Uncle Bucky’s family.  He didn’t have one like Uncle Clint had Aunt Laura and Lila and Cooper or Uncle Tony had Auntie Pepper or Uncle Thor had Jane.  Uncle Bucky didn’t seem to have anyone other than…  “And I have a brother, too.  Your dad.”

James really didn’t understand _that._   “Daddy’s your brother?”

“Yep.”

“But you don’t have the same mommy and daddy.”

“Well, we’re not brothers by blood.  I mean, we’re not related to each other.  But he’s been my brother since we met, since we were your age.”  At James’ flummoxed expression, Uncle Bucky chuckled.  “Being someone’s brother…  It’s not just having the same parents.  It’s bein’ best friends.  Standin’ by each other through thick and thin.  Playin’ together.  Sharin’ stuff.  Trustin’ one another.  Takin’ care of each other.  I took care of your dad a lot when we were kids because he… well, because I wanted to and he needed it, no matter what he says.  And he took care of me, too.  He takes care of me now.  We make each other better.  We carry each other.  And, yeah, we fought.  We still do sometimes.”  Uncle Bucky’s voice faded, and his eyes filled with something.  James saw it sometimes when he looked at Daddy.  Daddy told him once that Uncle Bucky was too hard on himself, that some bad things had happened to him (that was what had happened to his arm), and he always felt like he needed to make up for it.  “But I love your dad, James.  We’re brothers in all the ways that count.  All those stories I tell you that you like so much?  That’s what your dad means to me.  That’s what being a brother is.”  Now Uncle Bucky smiled.  “You’re just lucky enough to have one all your own.  Someone _you_ can stand by and who can stand by you.”  Uncle Bucky grinned his sneaky grin.  His fun grin.  “And from one big brother to another…  Bein’ bigger’s the best.  What you say goes.”

By the time they got to the hospital, he felt better.  He was still scared, but it wasn’t so bad.  Uncle Bucky parked the car and took his hand as they went inside.  They went up in the elevator and down a few big, white hallways.  Then they found Mommy’s room.  Uncle Clint was there.  “Hey, Jimmy.  You want to go in?  Mommy’s waiting for you.”

He hesitated because it was hard to be sure.  But that was okay.  He didn’t _need_ to be sure.  Uncle Bucky was right.  New and different was scary, but maybe it could be better.  He looked up at Uncle Bucky, and Uncle Bucky nodded.  “Go on,” he said.  He opened the door.

Daddy was right there waiting for him.  James broke into a run and threw himself into Daddy’s arms, so strong and familiar.  Daddy lifted him up and kissed his head.  “Hey, there.  You doing okay?”

“Yeah, Daddy, but where’s the baby?”

Daddy laughed.  “Over here.”  He turned and carried James over to the bed.  Mommy was laying there.  She looked really tired and a little pale, but she was smiling and her eyes were bright and full of love.  Her stomach wasn’t very big anymore.  Instead, there was something in her arms, a tiny bundle of pink skin and white blankets.  Daddy set James down right beside the bed.  “There he is.”

James couldn’t stop staring at the bundle against Mommy’s chest.  It was a little face with dark hair and scrunched up lips.  The baby’s eyes were closed.  His little fingers were curled around the edge of the blanket.  “He’s so tiny.”

“Yeah,” Daddy said softly, crouching beside him.  “That’s why we all have to be careful around him.”

James knew that.  “That’s what Uncle Buck said.  I’m older, so it’s what I gotta do.”  Had he been paying more attention, he might have noticed Daddy glance at Uncle Bucky who still stood near the door with a grateful, teary smile on his face.  As it was, though, he squirmed a little closer to the baby.  The brother was…  He was small and kind of weird looking.  James didn’t see what was so cute.  But that was okay.  He kind of liked him.  “Can I hold him, Mommy?”

“Of course you can, baby,” Mommy said with a smile.

“I’m not the baby,” James said proudly as Daddy wiped his hands with sanitizer.  “I’m the big boy.”

Daddy laughed.  Mommy did, too.  “You are,” she agreed.  She carefully moved the little bundle closer to James, slipping a hand around him as Daddy lifted him onto the bed.  Her fingers stroked his hair as the baby was gently settled into his lap.  Daddy was right there, helping him figure out how to hold him, his big, strong hands on James’ to guide him.

James looked down.  The baby gurgled in his arms and made a bunch of soft, strange sounds.  This was weird, too, but it felt alright.  It felt good.  And he was warm and happy, being there with his parents.  “What’s his name?”  That had been something everyone had talked about.  The baby’s name.

“Joseph,” Mommy said.

James liked that, too.  “Can I call him Joe?”

Daddy smiled.  “Sure, you can.”

James looked down again.  “Hi, Joe.  I’m James.  I’m your brother.”

“ _Big_ brother,” Uncle Bucky reminded with a sly grin.

“Yeah,” James said, grinning proudly himself.  “I’m your big brother.  And it’s my job to take care of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, _many_ thanks to the lovely [lbs29](http://lbs29.tumblr.com) for the beautiful artwork for this chapter!


	26. First Day of School

All summer Natasha had been worried about this.  It had been drawing closer and closer, at first a semi-distant thing she hadn’t needed to think about too much.  When she’d gone to do the registration, she’d felt a rush of anxiety, but, again, that had been in early spring so the actual date had been far enough away that she hadn’t had to focus on it.  No need to be concerned, right?  It was a whole summer full of beaches and parks and barbecues and bedtime snuggles and breakfast laughs and hugs and kisses away.  But the season had flown by, and now…  Now it was here.

James’ first day of school.

It was inconceivable.  Despite how prepared she was (and she was _prepared_ , with lists and calendars and double-checking and cross-checking and triple-checking to make sure she had everything and everything was in order), it had somehow snuck up on her.  Of course, everything that had happened with Steve getting hurt earlier that summer had thrown their lives into disarray.  By August that all had become a memory, and he was fairly well back to normal.  Their summer had been put on hold during all of that trauma, and she’d been exhausted with helping Steve through his slow, tedious, and painful recovery.  After that had thankfully ended, life had resumed in full force.  With Steve on the mend, the fun days she’d expected had finally come.  She was glad for that, for the sense of normalcy, for the family joys she’d thought would be lost.  Still, having him home all summer while he recuperated had made things seem not quite the way they should be.  The dog days of middle and late August flew by instead of dragging, packed to the brim with adventure.  So many of their friends were over so often.  It seemed like they constantly had someone at their house for lunch or dinner.  Tony and Pepper.  Laura and Clint and their kids.  Bucky.  Sam.  Thor and Jane.  Even Bruce had popped in more frequently.  She knew it was because they were all checking in on Steve, and that was fine.  She didn’t mind constantly cooking for an army of Avengers.  It had distracted her so much that before she knew it, summer had basically ended, and kindergarten was right around the corner.

The morning of the day in question she got up early, earlier than Steve even.  It was a rare moment that she managed to slip out of bed without waking him.  He grumbled something in his sleep and rolled over, leaving her to smile at him before tip-toeing to their bathroom to shower, dress, and get herself ready.  She managed to do that without feeling much or thinking much.  Once upon a time, it wouldn’t have been so hard.  This day would have been like any other, and Black Widow had a mission to accomplish.  As she did her hair and make-up, she was pretty proud that she had kept herself calm and collected so far.  Then it was down to the kitchen, where she got everything ready to make a nutritious breakfast.  It would do James no good to go to school with anything less than that in his stomach.  His little body needed energy to function, and his brain needed the appropriate sustenance to learn to its best ability.  So out came the fruit, the eggs, and the cereal.  Once she’d set their dinette table, she went to make sure his backpack was ready.  It was a brand new one with cars all over it.  Inside was his lunch box, also adorned in automobiles and already packed with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a plastic water bottle, a banana, and some Oreos for a treat.  Right next to his things his nametag that proudly read “JAMES ROGERS, MRS. KENNELLY’S CLASS, BUS 247” was waiting on the credenza by the front door.  Satisfied that everything was in order, she checked her watch for what was probably the hundredth time (okay, not that many, but she wasn’t blind to her own obsessive-compulsiveness this morning).  The bus came at 7:15, so she had about an hour to get James up, get him dressed and fed, and send him…  She made herself stop that thought right there because her eyes were stinging and she was not going to cry about this.  Instead, she took a deep breath and went upstairs.

The shower was softly hissing in the master suite, which meant Steve was up.  Joseph was awake as well, babbling quietly in his crib down the hall.  He seemed content, so she left him a moment to sneak quietly into James’ room.  He was still fast asleep, angelic and serene and looking so much like his father that her heart nearly broke.  _Not going to cry.  Nope.  No way._   She made herself move in order to keep her promise to herself.  She crouched beside his bed, gently caressing his blond hair.  “James, honey.  Time to get up.”  That didn’t do much.  Despite how active he’d been as a baby, James seemed to have inherited her preference for sleeping in.  It was about the only thing she was absolutely certain had come from her.  She smiled lovingly and rubbed down his back a little more firmly.  “Come on, sleepy head.  Time to get up.”

His eyes cracked open and gazed at her dazedly.  “Mommy?”

She smiled.  “Good morning.”

For a moment she wondered if he’d remember what today was.  He did, of course.  “Is it time for school?”

She nodded.  “Uh-huh.”

He practically popped out of bed.  “Yay!”  Then he was running out in the hallway.  “Daddy, it’s time for school!  It’s time for school!”  Natasha smiled to herself, not quite hearing Steve’s response, as she gathered up James’ clothes: a nice pair of khaki shorts and a white t-shirt with orange and navy blue stripes.  She stepped out into the hallway to see James bouncing up and down with excitement.  Steve was there, hair still a little damp, dressed in khaki shorts himself and a gray t-shirt.  Joe was in his arms, drooling all over his shoulder, laughing at James’ antics.

Natasha smiled at the sight of the three of them, but the pull of duty drove her onward.  She had a mission to accomplish.  “Okay, let’s get going.  Into the bathroom with you.”  She prodded James in that direction, Steve giving her a knowing smile before taking Joseph downstairs.  She watched him go, noting the tiny hint of a limp that was lingering.  Then she refocused.  “Come on.  Let’s get dressed.”

With militaristic precision that came from being married to a soldier, motherhood, and her own tendency to be somewhat obsessive, she got James on the potty, washed up, and dressed.  Then she helped him brush his teeth and hair (it was sticking up so much she needed to wet it down some).  When they were through, she had to admit he looked adorable (and fairly impeccable, if she did say so herself).  She found herself stroking his hair, mussing it a little, while he finished his socks.  “Ready?”

“Ready!” he announced, beaming.  She nodded, and before her smile could turn sad, she stood and led him downstairs.

Steve was already feeding Joseph.  There was a bowl of cheerios on his high chair tray along with some fruit.  The baby banged his tray in excitement when he saw Natasha, and she came over and kissed the mop of red hair atop his head before going to make the eggs.  James sat at the table and immediately started talking about his teacher (who he had met a few days ago at orientation) and school and recess and the other kids and “Daddy, did you know I get to have Oreos in my lunchbox?” and “Mommy, is school big?” and “I get to ride the school bus!”  Joseph squealed as Steve put a bowl of cereal in front of James, chucking cheerios at his brother (probably unintentionally, but Joseph was sneaky, and he’d already figured out how to cause trouble).  James threw a few back.

“Steve,” Natasha said as she watched the mounting food fight with one eye from the kitchen.

“What?” he answered around a mouthful of cheerios.  She rolled her eyes, shook her head as his obliviousness, and smoothly juggled not burning the eggs with taking Joseph’s ammunition away from him.  “Oh.  Sorry.”  Joseph screeched unhappily for a moment before Natasha picked his sippy cup full of milk up and off the kitchen floor.  He wasn’t quite happy with that, banging it against his tray.

She gave him a little bit of scrambled egg and pretended not to notice Steve slipping him another handful of cheerios as she filled James’ plate.  “You have about a half an hour, okay?”

“Okay, Mommy,” James said.  He hadn’t much touched his breakfast.

“Eat, honey.”

Clearly he was too excited to because he went right back to babbling excitedly about school without much food making it to his mouth.  She went back to the kitchen, staring at her little boy (when had he grown up so much?) as he went on and on about his new backpack and new lunchbox while Joseph laughed and Steve inconspicuously picked wet cheerios of the baby’s hair like Natasha wasn’t noticing.  Her eyes started to burn again as she stared at them, her sons and her husband, her boys.  Her baby was going to kindergarten today.  _Kindergarten._   _No, I’m not going to cry.  Nope.  Nope._   Steve caught her staring, and again that knowing, maybe even a little _teasing,_ smile quirked his lips.  She looked away, annoyed.  _Not going to cry._

That half an hour flew by.  Pretty soon James was bouncing his way to the door.  Natasha crouched in front of him and helped him tie his shoes.  Then she smoothed down his clothes and hair again before grabbing his backpack.  He put it on.  He looked so grown up.  She sniffled ( _not crying!_ ) as she pinned his little name tag to his shirt.  “Now, remember when you get there to make sure you listen to all the directions.  There are going to be people right there to help you find your classroom, okay?  You listen to them.”

“I know, Mommy.”

She smiled.  “I know you do.”  She opened the front door of their house, and the warm September day, still so much like summer, burst inside.  James went running out.

Steve was right there behind her, his large frame such a contrast to Joseph’s tiny one where it was up against his shoulder, and a million memories of him holding James the same way, of James seeming just as small, bombarded her until she felt her lower lip quiver.  She dug her teeth right into it to stop it.  Steve’s smile came back.  “I can take him down if you–”

“Shut it, Rogers.”

He raised his free hand in defeat.  “Just offering.  After you.”

She lifted her chin and headed out of their house.  It was set pretty far back from the street, so their driveway was long.  The day was idyllic, the full trees spreading their green canopies over their front yard.  She glanced at them, and unbidden came more thoughts of the trees full of autumn leaves and then naked during winter and then brimming with new buds and tender little sprouts in the spring and season after season, year after year.  First grade and third grade.  Later grades.  High school.  College.  She shook her head, nipping those thoughts in the bud before…  _No.  No, no. no._ James was already at the end of the driveway.  “Stay away from the street!” Natasha cried as she followed him.  James obediently stopped a few feet from the end, jumping into a puddle from the rain last night.  Natasha winced.  “Don’t get all messy!”

Their family gathered at the end of the driveway where the bus stop was.  All the new kindergartners were picked up at their houses, so James was alone there this morning.  Steve set Joe down, and he immediately went to the puddle and Steve let him.  Natasha was too nervous and riled, now that it had come down to the final moments, to stop him.  Steve smiled, calm and cool as a cucumber.  She could have hit him.  “You ready, big guy?”

“Yeah, Daddy.”

“It’ll be great.”

“Yeah, Daddy!”

They waited.  The birds were chirping.  Bugs were buzzing.  It was already warm and muggy with the sun starting to bake the residual rain from the night before.  Natasha’s stomach twisted with anxiety.  She hadn’t been this… _nervous_ in as long as she could remember.  It was a different sort of apprehension than what she sometimes felt before a mission, a different sort of fear than she’d experienced in the past.  This was excitement married with dread married with plain, old _worry._   And she knew she was hiding nothing from Steve, even though James didn’t seem to notice how riled she was.  As the minutes dragged away, she actually fidgeted.  “Steve…”

“What?”  She tipped her head toward Joseph, where he was currently giving himself a bath in the puddle.  “Oh.  Sorry.”  He plucked the baby from the water, and James immediately came over to step it in himself.  “Don’t get messy.  Your mom’s already about to–”

“Rogers.”

“Right.”

The minutes _dragged_ on.  No bus yet.  It was so still and quiet.  James kept looking down the road.  Steve did, too, Joseph giggling, squirming, and slung over his shoulder and both of them fairly damp from the water events a moment prior.  “What time is it supposed to come?”

Natasha sighed in embarrassed acquiescence.  “I might have gotten us out here a little early.”

Steve smiled a _sweetly_ knowing smile.  “You think so?”

“There it is!” James cried in jubilation as the yellow bus appeared down the curve of the street.  Its engine rumbled with that distinctive sound as it climbed up the little hill toward their house.  Natasha’s heart froze in her chest as it lumbered closer.  Suddenly she couldn’t breathe as it slowed to a stop right outside their house.  James was jumping in excitement.  The bus doors swung open and the red, flashing STOP sign swung out.

She caught James by the strap of his backpack and gently tugged him closer before he could hop on.  “Be good,” she reminded.  “Listen to your teachers, okay?  And I’ll be right here to get you off the bus this afternoon.  If you need me, they can always call.  If you need me.  And I packed your snack for you.  And…”  She smiled.  “Have fun, baby.”  She kissed his cheek, holding him tightly against her.  Probably a little too tightly and a little too long.  The other kids on the bus were waiting, and he was squirming.  It was so hard to let go, though.  So hard.

Still, she had to.  Steve’s hand fell onto her shoulder, and she sniffled and stood.  Steve ruffled James’ hair.  She couldn’t even care how messy it was now.  “Have a good first day, kiddo.”

“Bye, Joey!  Bye, Dad!”  And James bounded up the big steps of the bus.  The bus driver smiled at him, asked him his name, and James proudly answered.  The man said something more Natasha couldn’t hear and started to close the doors.  James turned at the last second, waving.  “Bye, Mommy!”  Then he disappeared inside, going to find a seat.

A moment later, the bus rumbled again, and before she knew it, it was continuing down the street and taking her son with it.

“Wave bye-bye, Joe,” Steve said, helping him with the motion.

“Bye-bye!” Joseph yelled, waving enthusiastically at the bus.  Natasha stood there, watching it disappear around the bend at the other side of the road.  Time seemed to stop.  She was right on the edge.  Mission accomplished.  All the parameters had been fulfilled to their fullest extent.  James was on his way, and there wasn’t anything more she could do.  It was done.

Black Widow wasn’t supposed to cry over anything, let alone something like this, but the second Steve slid an arm around her shoulders, that was all it took.  She gasped a sob and crumpled into him.  “Hey, it’s alright,” he promised.

“No, it’s not,” she whimpered, melting more a little as tears tracked down her cheeks.  All these irrational thoughts and emotions she’d been holding back were bombarding her now.  “My baby’s off to school.”

“I know.  He’ll be fine.  Are you worried about something happening?  Because the school knows who he is and they’re on top of it.  Plus JARVIS is always keeping an eye on him no matter _where_ he is, so it’s safe.  Plus I wouldn’t be surprised if Fury embedded a few agents in the school.  Plus we’re both right here.”

“I know that.”

“And he’s ready.”

“That’s just it.  He doesn’t need me now.  He doesn’t need me to take care of him like he did.”

“Of course he needs you.  You’re his mom.  And you’re an amazing mom, Nat.”

“He’s not a baby anymore!”

“I know.  But he’s still _your_ baby.  He always will be, even when he goes off to coll–”

“Don’t, Rogers.”

He chuckled.  “Alright.”  He just held her, Joseph grabbing her hair.  It hurt (both the baby pulling at her and her aching heart), but it was okay.  Steve rubbed her back, and the pain was quick to fade.  James would be fine.  He was ready to leave her (just a little).  And he was only five.  Maybe she didn’t want to hear Steve say it, but it was true.  He’d always be her baby, even when he had babies of his own.  “Better?”

Embarrassed, annoyed, but mostly grateful, she shoved him lightly away.  Then she took Joseph from him, whose face absolutely lit up when she smothered his sticky, chubby cheeks with kisses.  She wiped her own cheeks free of the evidence and drew a deep breath.  Steve smiled at her.  “I almost made it,” she confessed.

“Yeah.  Near miss.”  She whacked him lightly across the belly.  “Ow.”  They started slowly walking back to the house.  Natasha set Joseph down, and they each took one of his hands and swung him between them.  He laughed and laughed.  When they got closer, he toddled off to play in the yard.  Steve draped an arm around her again, this time for an entirely different purpose, pulling her flush to him.  His lips teased over the junction of her neck and shoulder before drifting their way up to the hinge of her jaw.  She didn’t know if she wanted to smack him again or kiss him.  “You know,” he rumbled against her skin, “if you’re looking for someone to take care of, you did such an _excellent_ job taking care of me all summer, and I still have a lot of needs that you could fulfill…”

“You wore out your welcome on that weeks ago,” she teased.  “And aren’t you ready to go back to work?”

“No.”  She laughed, half-heartedly shoving him away again.  He grinned like an idiot, coming right back.

“You’re terrible.  And your son is digging up my flower beds.”  He didn’t seem to hear her.  Instead, he was tenacious, teasing, leaning down to kiss her.  She refused to succumb to him, no matter how much she might want to.  _Nope.  No.  Not happening._   She barely caught sight of Joseph taking off around the back of the house with a handful of her flowers, dragging dirt everywhere.  “Steve…”

He sighed and ran off after him.  “Joe!  Come back here!”

Natasha smiled, shaking her head, and headed back into the house.  It was… quiet.  Too quiet.  Different.  A little emptier, maybe, but not for long.  James would be back that afternoon, full of stories of his adventures at school, and she felt even better just thinking about that, about how excited he’d be and how proud she already felt.  She glanced at the clock in the kitchen.  It was only 7:30.  She went to clean up the remains of breakfast, hearing Steve and Joseph playing in the backyard, and settled in to wait.


	27. Learning to Listen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** So this is the first of a two-parter about Clint and Laura the matchmakers. A couple of people asked for this, so here we are! Enjoy, and thanks so much for reading! Also, see if you can spot Steve's inner Chris Evans peeking out... ;-).

“Are you sure this is okay?”

Natasha sighed yet again as she turned off her Corvette.  The engine went silent.  Up ahead the farmhouse was just as it always was: nice, warm, and inviting (despite the missing balusters on the porch railing that Clint still hadn’t replaced and the fact that the exterior could really use a new coat of paint and the shutter on Cooper’s window that was _still_ a little loose weeks after the windstorm that had wrenched its nails out).  It was a warm, sunny summer day, just the sort that begged an early dinner barbeque.  The sky was bright blue, there was a nice, sweet breeze that rustled the trees around the yard, and everything was calm and quiet, so much so that she could practically hear Clint’s kids playing in the house.

And she could practically _feel_ Steve’s apprehension where he sat in the passenger’s seat beside her.  Last night after coming home late from a hard-fought op in Azerbaijan, Clint had suddenly and without much ado invited them _both_ over for dinner.  This wasn’t anything new for Natasha; she’d been a regular guest (so much so that “guest” was hardly an appropriate term anymore) at the Barton family farm for years now.  But she (and Steve) had been rather surprised the invitation had extended to him.  Black Widow and Captain America had been partners for months now, but there’d always been this distance between Clint and Steve.  Trust on the battlefield that didn’t quite extend into personal matters.  However, lately they’d been more comfortable with each other.  Natasha had noticed (and appreciated it) right away.  They were ruffling each other’s feathers less, easing off on the tension, reaching some sort of understanding.  She wondered if it hadn’t been from that ridiculous show of one-upmanship a few weeks back when the three of them had been training the new SHIELD recruits.  It didn’t matter why, she supposed.  All of the sudden, Clint, who trusted _no one_ when it came to the secret of his family aside from her and Nick Fury, was inviting Steve Rogers over for dinner.

So here they were.  They’d left the Triskelion earlier that day and taken the long drive north to the farm.  Steve had been off the entire time, obviously concerned about his presence disrupting things or intruding.  Natasha had continually assured him that there was nothing to disrupt; Clint’s wife and kids were the sweetest people on the planet, and while Clint himself was a bit of a loner and played things close to his chest, the people he loved weren’t so quiet, serious, or off-putting.  Still, Steve had silently fretted ( _fretted_ – she’d tried not to notice, let alone smile at, his fidgeting) the whole way here.  And he was still fretting.  “I told you, Rogers.  Are you having a listening problem?”  He gave her a withering look, and she grinned.  “He _invited_ you.  He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t mean it.  Trust me and relax, for crying out loud.  You’re making _me_ nervous.”

He stopped appraising the farmhouse to look at her, and she tried not to notice (or appreciate, at least not outwardly) other things.  Like the way sun made his hair glow gold.  Or how ridiculously _good_ he looked in just a button down blue shirt (so blue that it made his baby blue eyes somehow even bluer) and khakis.  Or how adorably clueless he was sometimes.  Or how self-conscious he could be (like he had _any_ reason to be self-conscious).  _Captain America_ was this worried over meeting a couple of kids and a woman who’d sooner cut off her own hand rather than speak ill of anyone.  He drew a deep breath.  “Okay.”

She nodded.  “Okay.”

They got out and headed across the yard (that needed to be mowed) to the porch.  The old boards creaked as Steve followed her up the steps.  Natasha knocked on the screen door before grasping the handle and pulling it open.  It moved with a squeak, and she slowly stepped inside.  “Hello?  Anyone here?”

There was the thunder of excited feet across hardwood floors, and a breath later Lila was running at her.  “Auntie Nat!  Auntie Nat!”  The four-year old catapulted herself at Natasha, and Natasha crouched to catch her, lifting her up, kissing her cheeks, and immensely enjoying Steve’s flummoxed stare.  He was absolutely shocked, and why wouldn’t he be?  This was a side of her that no one at SHIELD knew about, let alone saw firsthand.  That made her proud, that she could surprise him like this with something so… _domestic_ and loving.

She tickled Lila.  “You’re getting so big!”

Cooper came right after, but he was too big (and mature, as he’d told her when she’d last come over maybe a month ago for his birthday) for things like being held now at the ripe old age of seven.  But he smiled, excited nonetheless.  Obviously Clint had told him that he had invited Captain America over for dinner because the little boy couldn’t stop staring at Steve.  Laura came out of the kitchen.  She was smiling that warm smile of hers, her chocolate brown eyes alight and welcoming.  She wiped her hands on a towel which she set to the kitchen counter.  “Hi,” she said brightly.  She held out her hand.  “I’m Laura.”

Steve came closer, oblivious to Cooper’s eyes (which were wide as saucers) following his every move.  “Steve Rogers, ma’am.”  He shook her hand.

“Oh, no.  There’s no need for that.  Lila, honey, get down from Auntie Nat.”  She came over and peeled her daughter away from Natasha.  “Come on in.  Coop, go get your father.  Sorry about the mess.”  Natasha had to smile at that.  Laura was an excellent mother and an amazing home-maker (which hadn’t been something she’d ever cared about or appreciated until Clint had brought her to his house the first time).  Their place was always immaculate, and that was a lot of work given how much of a slob Clint could be and the normal mess caused by two active children.  Natasha had always liked their house, how comfortable and warm it was.  It looked _lived in_ despite being so clean, toys still about and floors scuffed in places and a mark or two on the walls or molding.  It looked like a family thrived here, playing and eating and sleeping and loving each other.  The first time she’d come, that had been so foreign and frightening to her.  Now…

“Should I take my shoes off?” Steve asked, seeing the pile of well-worn sneakers and boots by the front door.

“Oh, God, no,” Laura said with a laugh.  She set Lila down on the floor.  “Not unless you want to.  Please make yourself feel at home.  Would you like something to drink?  There’s fresh lemonade.”

Steve glanced at Natasha, like he was looking for her permission (or at least he wanted to gauge his response off hers).  Natasha rolled her eyes at him.  “That sounds great,” she said, making her way into the kitchen.  “Let me help you.  You don’t need to wait on us.”

“Nonsense.  Not every day I have Captain America in my house.”  She winked at Natasha.  Her little smile and comment made Steve blush furiously.  Natasha smirked at that, but inside she was wondering if Laura was just teasing or had already somehow seen…  _No._   She was much better at hiding her emotions.  She wasn’t some… some blushing girl or love struck idiot.  She wasn’t.  _I don’t…  I don’t want him._

Cooper came back with Clint.  “Hey, Cap,” Clint greeted.  He shook Steve’s hand firmly.

“Clint,” Steve said with a smile and a nod.  “Thanks for having me.  This is…”  He looked around.  The others probably didn’t see, but Natasha did.  A little shine of grief in his eyes.  A little touch of pain tightening of his grin.  “…really nice.”

Cooper was still just staring, looking unabashedly up at Steve’s towering frame.  Steve finished sweeping his gaze around and looked at him.  “Are you really Captain America?” he asked.  “How come you don’t have your shield?  And you don’t look as big as he does on TV.  And you–”

“Coop,” Clint chided gently, pulling his son close to him with two hands firm on his shoulders.  “Ease off, dude.  He already looks like a deer in headlights.”

Steve’s expression turned a little cross.  “Do not.  And it’s fine.”  He crouched so that he was at eyelevel with Cooper.  “What can I do to prove it to you?”

Cooper’s eyes went impossibly wider.  “Can you…”  He was trying hard to think of something.  “Can you…  Can–”

“He can get himself a beer and help me with the grill, is what he can do,” Clint declared, passing Natasha and Laura as he headed to the fridge.  He pecked his wife on the lips and nudged Natasha out of the way where she was getting the lemonade ready.  “Hey, Nat.  You’re looking kinda piqued.”

She knew where he was going.  “Don’t even, Barton.”

He grinned, as shameless about prying into her life as ever, before reaching inside the fridge to gather a couple of bottles.  Cooper still didn’t seem quite convinced, scrutinizing Steve with that critical eye Natasha knew he’d gotten from his father.  “Can you lift me up?  With one hand?  Dad says I’m too heavy.”

Steve rose to his full, impressive height as he sized the boy up.  “I don’t know.  You do look pretty heavy.”  Cooper practically beamed.  “I can try.  If it’s alright with your dad, that is.”

Clint popped the top off his beer, tipping it at Steve.  “By all means.”

Steve appraised the kid a moment, making a show of trying to figure out how to best approach this.  His biceps bulged as he finally took Cooper under his arms and tried to heft him.  He grunted and groaned and put on an overly exaggerated and awkward show of having a hard time that wasn’t at all convincing (well, not to her, but Cooper thought it was real).  “One hand, huh?”  He mused it again, grimacing.  Finally, he hefted Cooper right off the ground, just as ordered.  Cooper was laughing, hanging on tight (not that Steve would let him fall) as he was lifted high in Steve’s right hand, _really_ high, nearly up to the ceiling.  Steve smiled when Cooper giggled until he was red in the face.

Lila ran over, hopping excitedly at Steve’s feet.  “My turn!  My turn!  Me next!”

Steve set Cooper down with a thud.  He gasped, staggering a little like he was worn out, wiping at his forehead.  _Idiot,_ Natasha thought, unable to quell her smile (or the warmth blossoming in her chest).  “Pretty heavy,” Steve declared.  Cooper practically glowed with pride.  “But I did it. So whaddya think now?” he said.  “Think I’m Captain America?”

“Yeah!  Yeah!”

“My turn!” Lila demanded again, and she practically hopped into Steve’s arms.  He caught her, lifting her as he had Cooper.  She laughed and laughed.

“How come you can’t do that, Dad?” Cooper asked.

“Because I’m not a show off,” Clint replied evenly.  Steve gave him a wan look that practically screamed _Seriously?_ , and Clint smirked.  “Come on, let’s take this outside.  You can show Cap your treehouse.”

Cooper started babbling excitedly about that, jabbering a mile a minute, grabbing Steve’s hand and pulling him along while Lila clung onto Steve’s side for another ride. Steve gave Natasha a helpless, flustered look like he hadn’t quite realized what he was getting into, and she raised her eyebrows in return, smiling and shaking her head.  Then they disappeared out the back door.

The talking, laughing, and squealing got quieter.  Steve asked a question.  Clint was saying something about how far back the property went.  Through the kitchen window, Natasha could see Steve had both of the kids up now, again acting like he was really struggling to lift them (it was obvious to her just how much he was holding back).  She found herself staring, watching his nervousness melt away second by second as he played with them.  It was…  “He seems really sweet.”

Laura’s soft declaration pulled her from her dreamy ( _no, not dreamy!_ ) gazing.  There was that look in her eyes.  Natasha knew it all too well.  “Don’t even,” she warned again.

Laura laughed, going back to work on getting dinner ready.  “Alright,” she said.  “I’m not saying anything.”  The curl of her lips suggested that wouldn’t last.

The rest of the afternoon went by quickly.  Natasha helped Laura with the meal, looking outside (way too often) as Steve played with the kids.  All of Steve’s doubts and anxieties were unwarranted and gone in short order.  He was great with them.  Clint being Clint didn’t seem to notice (or care) that his kids were crawling all over Captain America.  Laura said something once or twice when she went out to set the picnic table by the grill, but Clint just shrugged and Steve said it was fine.  It really seemed to be.  While Clint got the burgers and hotdogs cooking, Cooper and Lila dragged Steve into playing horseshoes.  Without even being told, he faked being bad at it so the kids could win, Clint commenting and teasing from the grill.  It was sweet, how easily he was acclimating to this.  It was obvious at least some of his apprehension on the ride over had been tied to not having much experience with kids.  Why would he?  But he was good with them, remarkably so.  She could see that, see that in the way Lila and Cooper scrambled for his attention, the way he was gentle and sweet.  He crouched beside Lila, helping her hold the horseshoe better and throw it straighter.  It had quickly become so natural, and suddenly when Natasha watched him, it was almost like watching a fantasy or something of the like.  Him with his own kids, playing in the yard, laughing and happy and carefree.  It was… _weird_ ( _and why in the world am I thinking about this?_ ), but she liked the image so much she let it overtake her.

“Nat?”

“Hmm?”  She turned without thinking to, still contentedly floating in her thoughts.  “What?”

Laura had another knowing smile on her face.  “It’s ready.”

Natasha jerked.  “Oh.  _Oh._ ”  Sure enough, the pot of water she’d been heating to cook the corn on the cob was in a rolling boil in front of her.  “Sorry.”  She shook her head as if to clear it.  “Sorry.  I was just…”

Laura finished cutting up some vegetables.  “Daydreaming?”

Natasha was _not_ blushing.  Not at all.  And she turned her head away so even the faint amount of heat and color that might be on her cheeks couldn’t be seen.  “Yeah.”

It turned silent.  A few seconds later, she couldn’t help herself anymore and glanced outside again.  It was like an addiction almost.  Now Clint was over with Steve and the kids, leaving the meat to burn in all likelihood to join in on the fun.  Steve was smiling broadly, maybe more openly _free_ than she’d ever really seen him be before.  Letting go and enjoying himself.  Even now, months and months after waking up from the ice, he still never seemed to fully relax and completely let himself be comfortable.  Seeing him like this…  It made her feel things (things she’d been feeling for a while, if she could be honest with herself) she didn’t understand.  Warmth and comfort.  Security, which seemed ridiculous.  She didn’t _need_ him to feel safe.  Or good.  Or _anything_ , really.  He was her partner.  They were friends, certainly, but nothing more than that.

She could only lie to herself so much.  And, unfortunately, her lies weren’t at all convincing to anyone else, either.  “So…  How long has this been going on?”

Natasha knew how to play it cool, how to seem nonplussed.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, dropping the husked corn carefully into the water.

Laura raised her eyebrows in doubt.  “Sure, okay.”

“What?” Natasha said a bit tersely.

The other woman shifted closer.  Others might have been intimidated or at least dissuaded from pressing any further, but not Laura.  Laura had been nothing but welcoming to her for years, even back when Natasha had been cold and uncertain about Clint bringing her here.  And she’d quickly realized that there was very little point in hiding anything from Hawkeye’s wife.  Like her husband, she had eyes that saw all, particularly when it came to things like this.  “You and the Captain.”

Natasha stiffened.  There’d been times she’d been brave enough to even consider “the Captain and me” to be a real _thing_ , not just a silly (and hardly acknowledged) fantasy.  There’d even been times where Clint had teased her about it.  But hearing someone else _say_ it…  She wanted to run, snap at Laura for bringing it up, and secretly melt into the idea all the same time.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Continuing to claim that was not much of a convincing defense, and, again, Laura wasn’t warded away.  “You haven’t taken your eyes off him,” she gently proclaimed.  Natasha fought the urge to stiffen.  Normally she was so much better at controlling her emotions, at mastering her reactions, but with Steve or anything related to Steve (particularly her feelings), things were always confusing and more difficult.  She wasn’t going to listen to what her heart was telling her, either.  _No._   She’d gotten extremely proficient at ignoring that.  “And you’re watching him with the kids.”

“I am not.”

Laura laughed lightly.  “Oh, yes, you are.  I might not be a spy or a SHIELD agent or an Avenger, but I know a woman checking a guy out when I see one.”

There wasn’t much she could do or say to deny that no matter how much she wanted to, so she said nothing.  She knew shouldn’t have let her guard down, but she felt safe here.  _And why not?_   The little voice inside her that she was so adept at ignoring was insistent.  Why not be honest?  So what if Laura knew how she felt?  They were close, the closest thing Natasha had to a friend, a sister even.  This sort of thing was what women talked about, right?  Crushes?  _I don’t have a crush on him.  I do not!_

The two of them were silent a while, pots boiling and cutting up the rest of the vegetables for the salad.  The war went on inside Natasha, give and take, doubt and certainty, the excitement of her feelings versus the safety of apathy, until she finally felt unsettled enough to blurt out something more.  “Somewhere along the line…  I think I…”  God, why was it so hard?  She’d said stuff like this before for missions, played the part of a girl… _in love. You can think it._   She’d acted the lie plenty of times in the past.  Why was it so hard to let it be the truth?  “He got in,” was all she could manage.

Laura smiled.  “I can see that.  Clint has, too.”

“I know.”

“Why else do you think he invited him here?”

“I…  I figured.”

“When are you going to tell him?”

Natasha released a long breath.  _Telling_ Steve how she felt?  She didn’t even _know_ for sure how she felt, so she hadn’t even considered it.  In fact, she’d gone out of the way to hide it.  Setting him up on dates.  Confusing him (and herself, to be honest) with all the dancing around him she was doing.  Flirting but then stopping when it turned sweet or serious.  Inviting him closer only to push him away.  She could just let things continue as they were.  That was safe, easy, and maybe this feeling would go away.

She didn’t want it to go away.  “I don’t know.”  Laura turned to watch her husband and her children play with her guest.  Now Lila and Cooper were running around the yard like superheroes, and Steve stood with Clint at the grill.  They were each drinking a beer, keeping an eye on the kids and talking.  Laura and Natasha couldn’t hear what the guys were saying, but whatever it was, they were both laughing, both relaxed.  It was nice to see.  “It’s complicated.  He’s…”

Laura nodded, smiling sadly.  “I know.  Clint told me what happened to him.”

“And I’m not…”  _I’m Black Widow.  He’s Captain America._   “I’m not sure I’m what he needs.”  He needed someone open, someone without so much baggage, someone like Laura who was capable of providing emotional sturdiness and support.  He _deserved_ that.  No matter what else she felt about Steve, she wanted him to be happy.  She couldn’t even bring herself to deal with her own feelings sometimes; her natural reaction was to push them down, ignore them, sometimes even viciously so.  How could she make him happy?  Steve needed someone to help him grieve and acclimate, to help him find a home, _not her._ Hence why she’d been going out of her way to set him up with _everyone_ who was half-way acceptable.  It was a defense mechanism, sure, but it was also for Steve’s own good.  She was too damaged and he was who he was and _it would never work._

Laura kept smiling.  “Nat, you know Clint.  He may have an eye for targets, but he’s about the least perceptive man alive when it comes to things like this.”  That made Natasha smile in spite of herself.  “And he told me that you’re pining.”

“I am not pining,” she grumbled, turning back to the meal.

“Well, pining as far as you would pine.”  Laura set a hand on her shoulder, and Natasha met her gaze.  “And I know you.  I know it’s not easy for you, but maybe…  Maybe it would be better to just listen to your heart and follow it.”

That had never been a strong suit of hers.  Listening to her heart.  Following it.  Her heart, so abused and damaged by the Red Room, still had a tendency to confuse her.  She had to admit, though, that this time the message was pretty clear.  _I want him._

Laura nodded, almost like _she_ could hear that message loud and clear, too.  “Plus he’s Captain America.  If you don’t stake a claim, someone else will.”  Natasha laughed, nodding and trying not to succumb to how relieved she felt.  Laura nudged her gently before going back to her cutting.  “You’ve been through a lot, Nat.  So has he it sounds like.  You both deserve a win.”

Natasha looked up again, watching Steve throwing his head back and laughing openly, grabbing Clint across the chest.  Clint was wildly gesticulating about something, some ridiculous (and likely embellished) story no doubt.  She watched them, watched Steve _fit in here_.  Fit into her life, her secrets, her heart.

_I want him._

Maybe listening wasn’t so hard after all.


	28. The Right Partner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Part two of Clint the matchmaker. And a little bit of previous Steve/Peggy. This didn't quite go the way I had planned, but those of you who have been reading along know that Steve and Natasha got together in chapter 11, so hopefully this lines up with that. Enjoy!

It was late, too late really to drive back to DC.

She’d never be able to prove it, but something told Natasha that Clint had done this on purpose.  He was trying to be nonchalant about it as he dragged his feet through dinner and dragged his feet even more through dessert.  Clint could be open, even chatty, when it suited him, and he could certainly be lazy now and again, but he’d made a production out of gathering everyone around the picnic table and serving up the meal.  He’d made a production out of eating it (which was way out of character for him), talking instead of devouring and moving on.  Then he’d made a production out of cleaning up.  He’d actually _volunteered_ to do it, which was also out of character for him, and he and Steve had cleared the dishes like they’d had all the time in the world.  Steve had seemed a little surprised, not so much with doing the work but the speed at which Clint was doing it, but he’d gone along with it anyway.  And Laura had shaken her head and rolled her eyes before going to get the cherry pie she’d made for dessert.  Even then, Clint had made a production out of slicing it and piling on the whipped cream.  And he’d taken his time eating it, which was ridiculous because Natasha knew for a fact he didn’t even _like_ cherry pie.  It went on and on, until the sun was setting and every scrap of food was consumed, until dusk drenched the farm in shadows and the evening turned a little chilly, until every story about Clint’s time in SHIELD and how Clint and Laura had met and gotten married and even some stories about the war and the Howling Commandos had been shared.  Until even the kids were too full and too tired to move much.  Even then Clint kept talking.  She’d never _heard_ him go on so much.  It was almost like he was trying to elongate this whole affair so they’d be forced to spend the night.

“You know, the guest room is yours, if you want it.”

They still sat on the back patio.  The night was quiet and cool, the sort of late summer evening that couldn’t get any better.  Lila and Cooper were out in the yard, but they were bickering more than playing at this point.  The four adults sat on the lawn chairs, watching twilight descend.  The first of evening stars were appearing in the midnight blue of the darkening sky, and fireflies started to twinkle across the yard.  Beyond here, the rolling fields were lush and quiet.  Picturesque.  It was…  _No._   It was _not_ romantic.  But it definitely was a setup if she’d ever seen one.  _Subtle, Barton._   Clint might have been the world’s best marksman and one of SHIELD’s top agents, but subterfuge was not his forte.

Thankfully, Captain America had morals and scruples, and even if Steve didn’t realize what was really happening – that Clint had enlisted his wife into playing _matchmaker_ for crying out loud – he was already trying to put a stop to it.  “No, no.  That’s fine.  I couldn’t–”

“It’s not a problem,” Laura said.  She turned over to look at Steve, taking a sip of her iced tea.  “The room’s already made up and you’re more than welcome to stay.”

Steve’s face fractured in dismay.  “I couldn’t impose–”

“It’s not an imposition at all,” she countered.

“Yeah.  Nat stays here all the time,” Clint added, again trying to be nonchalant as he settled deeper into his lawn chair.  He reached out for Laura’s hand, holding it between their seats.  “Right, Nat?”

He wasn’t looking at her.  If he had been, he would have _melted_ under her glare.  “We really should go,” she said instead.

“It’s already past eight,” Clint returned.  “If you got on the road now, you wouldn’t get home until–”

“We’re off tomorrow,” Natasha replied, so when they got back to DC was effectively a nonissue.

“You’re off until Monday,” Clint corrected.  Had he _checked_?  Worse than that, had he _arranged it?_   He was in _so much trouble._

“And that’s all the more reason to take it easy and spend the night,” Laura said.  Lila and Cooper were getting rougher and ruder with each other, so she stood and went to go tend to them before it escalated any further.  “It’s really _not_ a big deal, and I’d feel better knowing you’re not on the road in the middle of the night.”  Trust Laura to play a card like that.

Steve seemed more and more dubious.  “I don’t need…  I don’t get tired like that.  I mean, if Natasha lets me drive, she can sleep and I can–”

Clint stood, setting his mostly empty beer bottle down to go help his wife with his kids.  Lila was really screaming about something now, something about Cooper hitting her.  “You refusing my hospitality, Rogers?”

Predictably, Steve flushed and scrambled to explain to make the other man feel better.  She wanted to smack him until he realized he was being played.  “No, no.  I’m not.  I just don’t feel right–”

“Well, you’re staying the night, since you don’t want to be a jerk.  Sleep here.  Have breakfast tomorrow.  Then go back.”  Clint said all that like what he’d decided was the end all, be all of this conversation.  And it might as well have been because he walked away like that was it.  It was over, and they were staying.

There was an awful lot of whining and carrying on as Clint and Laura wrangled Lila and Cooper toward the house for bedtime.  And then _they_ started whining about Steve and Natasha staying, that Cooper hadn’t gotten to show Steve his collection of Hot Wheels cars and Lila wanted to color with Natasha tomorrow.  Natasha didn’t think Clint had put them up to it; this seemed rather genuine.  But the smug jerk smiled to himself as the effect definitely went his way and was almost instantaneous.  Lila clung to Natasha’s legs, whining and weeping, and that was practically a secret weapon.  Natasha could _never_ deny Lila _anything._   “Alright,” she assured, petting the little girl’s mussed hair.  “Alright.”

_Score one for you, Barton._

That made the kids much more amenable about bed, as well.  Lila wanted her to come tuck her in, and she agreed to.  Then off they all went, and it was just Steve and Natasha and the cool, quiet evening.

They were awkwardly quiet for a few minutes.  The crickets were serenading, really getting going now as the sun set, and the gentle breeze rustled the corn in the fields beyond.  Natasha made a point _not_ to look at Steve.  She already felt embarrassed and uncomfortable enough (not that she’d let him see that, but she was off her game and she didn’t quite trust herself to keep it under wraps).  “You can take my car back, if you want.  Clint’s being obnoxious.”

Steve met her gaze now.  He sighed, pushing himself up and out of his chair, and went to the table where the last remains of dessert lingered.  “It’s fine, as long as it’s okay with you.  I’ve got no plans for tomorrow.”

For some reason, the way he said that made her heart ache.  For all intents and purposes, he’d done pretty well adjusting to his new life these last few months, but there were times like this when it all came pressing down, and just how _alone_ he was turned painfully undeniable.  The more she tried to tell herself it was friendly concern that she felt, the more she knew it was nonsense.  “Are you sure?”

He managed a smile and nodded.  Anything more he might have said was interrupted by Laura’s call from inside the house.  “Natasha?  Would you mind coming?  Lila wants you.”

She turned back to Steve, not wanting to go.  He seemed to pick up on that.  “It’s alright.  I’ll just finish up here.”  That sad tone still clung to his words, and in the darkness, he seemed to deflate further.  She lingered a moment more before heading into the house.

Not much longer after that, Lila was in bed, hair damp from her bath and sleepy.  Natasha picked up her discarded clothes from the floor of her room and handed them to Laura, who was gathering the damp towels and such.  Then she went to Lila’s bed.  “Have a good day?”

The little girl nodded.  “Missed you, Auntie Nat,” she said.

Natasha smiled and stroked the hair from her forehead.  “I missed you, too.”

“Steve’s nice.”

She nodded.  “Yeah, he is.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

Trust a four year-old to come right out and say it.  She was starting to think the entire Barton family was in on this conspiracy.  “Did your dad tell you to ask me that?”

“Nuh-uh.”

She hid her disquiet with a grin, tucking Lila in more.  “Yeah.  Right.”  She didn’t know what else to say for a moment.  The earnest, innocence with which Lila was staring at her was almost too much.  It almost made it too hard to deny.  But she did.  “No, he’s just my partner.”

“Partner?”

“Like your dad used to be.”

That seemed to placate her, even if she didn’t entirely understand.  Natasha kissed her goodnight and went to leave her room, switching off the light and closing it most of the way.  Clint was outside in the hallway, arms folded across his chest and leaning against the door to the linen closet.  Natasha glared at him.  “You’re a piece of work, Barton.  And you’re not nearly as clever as you think you are.”

“Never said I was clever.”  He quirked a smile and then cocked an eyebrow.  “Just looking out for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” she returned, maybe a little more sharply than she intended, but she _was_ mad at him.  And nervous.  And a tad excited.  And under _no circumstances_ was she sleeping in the same room with Steve Rogers.  Not that she didn’t want to, but…

“Here.”  He offered her up a spare blanket and a couple of pillows.  Natasha gave him a withering look.  “What?  He’s too much of a boy scout to even think about it, and you won’t make a move unless you have to.”  His smile turned less sneaky and more caring.  “Come on, Nat.  He’s a good guy.  And you–”

“–both deserve a win?” she said, echoing Laura’s thought from before.  She’d meant for that to come out harder than it did.  Instead her voice was soft, accepting of the idea.  Clint practically read her mind, nodding knowingly.  He’d always been able to, the person closest to her heart, to what she truly was.  If he thought this was a good idea…  “Stop meddling,” she warned.

Clint raised his hands in defeat after she took the bedding.  “Stopping.”

“Good.”  She headed back downstairs but stayed at the foot of the steps.  She could hear Laura thanking Steve for bringing in the rest of the dishes and him brushing aside her gratitude.  The back door opened again, and she knew he’d gone back outside.  It was hard to think all of the sudden and harder still to move.  The negligible weight of the blankets and pillows was abruptly heavy, and she sank down onto the bottom step.  There was water running, Laura probably finishing with the washing.  She sat there not thinking, curling her fingers into the soft quilt but _feeling_ nothing but the butterflies in her stomach.  She was waiting for Laura to be done so she wouldn’t have to talk anymore.  Maybe that was cowardly, but if one more person pushed this…  She knew she’d lose her nerve.  She’d let her doubts get the better of her, talk herself out of what she was going to do.

And she was going to tell him.  She was going to go out there and tell Steve how she felt about him.  She was.  Every bit of her brain railed against that – _he’s your partner and your friend and you’ll lose him because he won’t want you_ _don’t ruin this don’t risk it!_ – but her heart was finding its pacing now, finding its voice, and that timid whisper was suddenly a song.  She was going to do this.  _She was._

Eventually the clinking of dishes quieted and she heard the tell-tale footsteps of someone going into the living room.  She moved fast.  Black Widow darted from the bottom of the stairs, stepping on light and silent feet through the now dark house.  She deposited her armful of bedding down on the couch before lithely continuing on her way.  Breathing a sigh of relief at having escaped detection, she slipped outside.

Steve was sitting in the grass just beyond the back patio.  It was very dark now.  They were far enough away from anywhere out here that there was no light pollution interfering with the sky, and it was brilliant, a deep, dark blue punctuated by millions of glittering diamonds.  The crickets were even louder, but they were melodic in a way, singing to the stars.  Ahead the fireflies winked and flashed.  The air was cool, sweet.  Even though she didn’t care for things like this, she couldn’t deny it.  This was beautiful, romantic, enchanting… _perfect._

She stared at him.  He was watching the sky, arms around his knees.  He looked… small somehow.  Young.  Lost.  As she’d thought before, she’d caught glimpses of that vulnerability in the past but never so outward like this.  It sent doubt stabbing right back into her heart.  He was alone in this world.  Outside of SHIELD and the Avengers, outside of _Captain America_ , she didn’t think he had anyone or anything.

Why in the world would he want her?

And if he did want her, would it just be because he _didn’t_ have anyone else?

Disgusted at her own thoughts ( _you’re better than this_ ), she drew a deep breath, lifted her chin, and boldly strolled out there.  She was Black Widow.  She wasn’t afraid.  She’d manipulated men far more dangerous and more difficult to read than him dozens and dozens of times in the past.  Of course, therein lay the problem.  She didn’t _want_ to manipulate him.  She didn’t want to be Black Widow with him.  She wanted to be herself.  Someone he needed.  No, someone he _wanted._

Unannounced, she sat down beside him.  She’d meant to do it more boldly, but her nerves failed her, and it ended up timid and graceless.  He glanced over at her and let his knees fall so he was sitting cross-legged.  His thigh brushed against hers.  She pretended not to notice.  “Everything okay?”

“Sure,” she responded smoothly.  “She’s sleeping.”

“She seems really attached to you.”

Natasha couldn’t help but smile.  She was proud of that, and maybe it was alright to show it.  “Yeah.”

They sat in silence for a moment.  She was trying not to look at him, keeping her glances small and inconspicuous as she pretended to stare at the sky.  He was as pensive and forlorn as she’d feared.  She wondered what had gotten into him, what had changed his mood so suddenly when Clint had asked him to stay.  She wondered if it would be okay to ask him.  Being a friend wasn’t something at which she was adept.  Therefore, what actually came out was, “It’s nice out tonight.”

He actually grinned, but it was a sad grin, a rueful one.  “Sure is.”

The quiet came back.  She didn’t like it.  It was an odd thing, because while she’d never been a fan of idle chit chat, she was even less of a fan of not knowing what to say to him.  Was it right to press?  Was it too bold or insensitive?  Licking her lips nervously, she finally drummed up the courage to continue.  “You look like you’re a million miles away.”

He grunted softly.  “I am,” he admitted.

“Some place nice?”

“Not really.”  His tone and distant but appreciative expression belied that, and sure enough he was explaining more a beat later.  “During the summer of 1944, we were in northern Italy for a stretch.  SSR and the Commandos.  We camped out in a lot of places like this.  Most places had been pretty badly hit by the war at this point, so a lot of times there wasn’t much to be had.  The people were friendly, though, for the most part.  Lots of nice families with little kids, struggling to get by but doing it all the same.  Sometimes it was easy to forget that the first people Mussolini and Hitler oppressed were their own.  I think…  That was the last time I was on a farm.”  His eyes glazed as he looked out over Clint’s land.  Whatever he was seeing, it wasn’t rows and rows of summer corn.  The verdant hills of the Italian countryside, not just miles away but years removed.  “It was nice.  Quiet nights like these.  Sitting out under the stars.  Millions of ’em.  The only light anywhere.  Sitting with…”  He looked over at her, and he didn’t seem to recognize her for a moment, like the memory had been so strong it had actually confused him.  When his gaze sharpened, he averted it sharply.  “Sorry.”  Suddenly he seemed to realize he was saying something he didn’t want to say.  He smiled weakly.  “Sorry.  Didn’t mean to get all maudlin.”

That was the most he’d ever really said about the war.  About his past.  Sure he’d told stories, just at dinner in fact.  But this was personal.  Precious.  And somehow she knew he was talking about a woman.  A lost sweetheart, maybe.  For some reason, it had never occurred to her that he might have had a girl back then.  It was really stupid that it hadn’t.  And she felt… a little hurt, a little jealous, but mostly saddened for him.  Saddened for the pain in his eyes that he was trying to hide.  Whatever he’d had with this woman, whoever she was, it had obviously been cut short by him being lost in 1945.  If she was still alive now, she’d probably be well over ninety years old.  “It’s alright.”  It was hard to put her own wishes and wants aside, but she did.  She sat a little closer.  “You want to talk about it?”

Steve blew out a long breath.  “No,” he said.  She couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.  Again, that wasn’t rational.  And the ache in her heart went tighter.  “No, it’s okay.  It’s…  It’s okay.  Just hard to let go sometimes.”

Suddenly nothing felt right about this anymore.  Telling him what she thought and felt.  Telling him what she wanted.  She covered up her disappointment – how much this hurt – with a smile.  “Well, I wish you’d told me about it sooner.  I’ll stop trying to set you up.”

He didn’t turn to her, still looking up at the sky.  “No, it’s fine.”  He sighed.  “Gotta move on, right?”  That wasn’t said with the amount of confidence she’d need to even think of telling him he was correct.  Another long breath was blown between his lips, and he deflated again, like he was accepting the truth.  “Can’t live in the past.  Can’t long for things that can’t happen.”

“Steve…”  She understood right then and there what about this had upset him.  It wasn’t just that he was intruding on Clint’s secrets, on Clint’s family.  It was that he thought _he’d never have a chance to have this._   Whoever had watched the stars with him in Italy in 1944…  She’d been the one he’d wanted to marry, the one who would’ve been his wife and the mother of his children.  The nice house and the quiet life.  She’d been the one.  “It’s alright to hang onto that.”

“No,” he said more firmly.  “I’m here now.  I gotta think it’s for a reason.”  She could read into that.  _I have to believe this is where I’m supposed to be._   He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly.  “I’ll find someone else.”

She didn’t know whether to hope or hurt.  She scooted even closer despite herself.  “Sure.  You’re Captain America.  Why do you think I’ve been trying to find you someone?  No reason to – to be lonely.”

He nodded, more to himself than to her, like now he did have the courage and strength to convince himself of something.  “No.  I’ll find someone else,” he said again.  “The right–”  He turned just at the right moment, and with her face as close as it was to him, they very nearly kissed.  He went still.  So did she.  She could feel the warmth of his shallow breath on her face, see the depths of his eyes.  In a blink all his grief was gone, replaced by something surprised but… _relieved._   Warm with hope.  “…partner.”

They stared at each other under the starlight for what felt like forever.  She could kiss him.  All she would need to do was move forward just a bit, a scant half an inch maybe.  His lips were so close, soft and inviting, and she knew he wanted her to.  His hand came up, shaking a little, and touched the side of her face.  _He wanted her to._

But she pulled away.  Not like this.  Not when she’d be taking advantage of him.  Not when he was so lonely and lost in the past.  It…  _It’s not right._

He was confused, blinking repeatedly and looking a little hurt himself, when she stood up.  There was an ache in his eyes that she wasn’t going to let herself see.  The impulse to go back and do it – kiss him and hold him and make him feel better and be what he wanted and let herself love him – was so strong she nearly succumbed.  But she didn’t.  “I’ll sleep on the couch,” she declared with an uncertain grin.

He stood, too, regaining his bearings. “No.  No, I will.”  His grin was crooked.  “Wouldn’t be much of a gentleman otherwise.”

He was a gentleman, and she wasn’t lady.  But she could be for him.  And a lady would back away now and try again when the moment was right.  They stood awkwardly in the silence, under the stars with the fireflies flashing all around them, and she wanted more than _anything_ for him to do what he wanted – kiss her and hold her and make her feel better and be what she needed and let himself love her.  She was a little glad he didn’t right then.  And she knew what she needed to say, even if it wasn’t her who ended up being the one.  “You’ll find her.”  Now she really couldn’t stop herself, a sly, flirty smile (one she was pretty sure went straight to his heart) curling her mouth.  “She might closer than you think.”  Now Steve smiled genuinely.  She held his gaze a moment more before nodding and turning to go.  “Good night.”

“Nat, wait.”  He took her arm, and before she knew what was happening, he kissed her cheek.  It was a quick, chaste thing, soft and tender but teeming with the desire for _more_.  She wasn’t deluding herself or letting her dreams get the better of her or imagining it.  The mere brush of his lips to her skin was enough to send warm waves of excitement and desire over her.  He pulled away, flushing with his embarrassment at his own boldness.  “I, um…  Thanks.”

She didn’t understand.  “For what?”

“For bringing me here.  It’s been really nice.”

“I told you.  Clint invited you.”

“Yeah, but he never would’ve if not for you.”

That made her warm but in a different way.  A proud way.  “One of the many perks of being my partner.”

There was no denying the touch of disappointment in his eyes, not a sad sort but the kind that was hopeful for something more.  She saw it because it so easily mirrored what she felt herself.  The quiet turned a little awkward.  She tipped her head at him again.  “Well, goodnight.”

“G’night.”

She turned and headed back into the house.  It was a little chilly now, but the place where he’d kissed her cheek was warm and tingling, and she smiled to herself.  It was okay to be lovesick.  Maybe just a little.  And maybe she hadn’t managed to tell him what she’d wanted to, but that was okay, too.  Her courage would probably wan, her doubts resurfacing, but she would somehow.  She would when they were both ready.

Back inside the house, Clint was predictably waiting.  “Well?  What happened?” he asked in a hushed voice like a nosy busybody.  “Did you…  Did he?”

“No,” she answered.

He looked annoyed and disappointed.  After all, he’d done everything to _get_ them together, invited Steve over, orchestrated this evening, set up the perfect moment, pushed and cajoled and reminded and not-so-subtly maneuvered…  All to get Natasha to act on her feelings.  “But all this…  I mean, I know you don’t like the romantic stuff, but _look_ out there!  It’s perfect!”

She did look out there.  Steve was still standing there, bathed in starlight and looking out into the night, a peaceful expression on his face and light in his eyes and a smile on his lips.  She smiled, too.  “Yeah, it is.”

He was flabbergasted.  “Then what went wrong?”

“Nothing.”

_“Nothing?”_

“Valiant effort, though.  A-plus.  Five stars.”

He sputtered, shaking his head dumbly.  Then he slumped.  “I don’t get it,” he groaned.

“One day I’ll explain it to you.  When you’re older.”

_“What?”_

She couldn’t help but laugh.  “Night, Clint.”


	29. The 'R' Is Important

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This one is for MysticFantasy who asked for James' first word. Warnings for a little stronger language than normal. And for completely ridiculous stupidity :-).

“Can you say it, James?  Come on.  Say ‘Tony’.  ‘Tony’.  ‘Toneeee’.”

“Saying it slower isn’t going to make him actually say it, Stark.”

“How do you know, Barnes?  You ever taught a baby to talk before?”

“You’re not teaching him now.”

“Bucky’s probably right, Tony.  The way babies learn language is not well understood, but I highly doubt one morning of you working on this is going to sway him.”

“But we shall applaud you for a truly masterful effort.”

Natasha shook her head from where she sat at the breakfast table, desperately trying to spoon oatmeal into James’ mouth.  He was seven months old now, all sweet smiles and chubby cheeks and sparkling blue eyes.  And while he was exuberant and thrilled, she was rather exhausted.  It was the second day Steve was away on an assignment for SHIELD with Clint and Sam.  She’d had a mind to spend the duration of his mission at their house, but Pepper had immediately suggested she come stay with them.  Normally she wouldn’t have taken the offer, but this was the longest Steve had been gone since James had been born, and she was feeling unsettled (probably more than she should have been, but it was hard not to worry).  So here she was, allotted an entire floor in the Tower (honestly, how much room did Pepper think she and James would need?), and she’d arrived to find their rooms fully stocked with enough baby supplies that one would think they’d be staying for weeks, maybe even months.  She knew this was Pepper’s way of trying to make them feel comfortable, but it had something of the opposite effect.

And she wasn’t quite accustomed to continually having an audience while she was taking care of James.  Sure, the others had seen him before.  Plenty of times, in fact.  The Avengers, this mismatched group of superheroes that had somehow become friends and family, were constantly around for bottles and diapers and feedings and whatever else came their way.  They’d even been to the hospital the day James had been born.  Tony and Pepper had come almost instantly, bearing hugs, smiles, flowers, and balloons.  Thor and Jane had arrived shortly thereafter, the Asgardian booming so proudly that Natasha had feared the entire hospital would hear him.  Sam had been so excited and happy for them, practically beaming as he’d cradled the baby in his arms.  Bruce had also held James in the first hours of his life, afraid to be so close given the monster within but with Natasha and Steve’s calm encouragement, he’d done beautifully.  And Clint had been the one to drive her to the hospital while she’d been yelling at him and yelling for Steve (there’d been a lot of yelling – that she remembered with embarrassing clarity).  Even Bucky had crept in to see the new baby.

And they’d all been at their house off and on since then, coming over for dinner (sometimes unannounced and sometimes uninvited), pitching in when either Steve or Natasha was needed by SHIELD or the Avengers (sort of), taking James for an evening (once) so Steve and Natasha could go out.  Offering their own brand of “help”.  This was like that.  Their way of aiding her, of keeping her company, of making sure she knew she wasn’t alone.  Not _helping_ , per se.  Not dealing with the mess or getting up for the bottle during the night or changing diapers (God, no) or doing anything aside from being around her constantly and playing with the baby.But at least they were staying close.  She wasn’t sure if Steve had asked them to do that, but even if he had (and, Lord, would he be paying for that later), they were all taking that responsibility very seriously.

So she’d come down that morning early (James had been up at five o’clock, same as every morning, crying in his crib for her attention and ready to start his day – God bless the super soldier serum), exhausted and grouchy.  She’d been hoping to get him through breakfast by herself, only to find the team was _already there._   Tony and Bucky (both of whom were notorious late risers) had already been starting breakfast, preparing eggs and pancakes (Bucky was surprisingly a good cook, which she supposed made sense since Steve was so atrocious at it.  How would they have eaten back in Brooklyn otherwise?).  Stark had actually been setting the table, placing the plates and silverware, filling glasses with orange juice.  Coffee had already been brewed, and they were already drinking it.  She’d groaned inwardly as she’d gotten James in his high chair and gotten herself a cup.

Now the others were all gathered around and feasting.  Bruce had the paper, and he was partly reading, partly eating, and partly watching Tony’s antics with James.  Bucky was leaning back in his chair, grinning openly.  Despite Natasha’s weariness, she had to admit it was nice to see him finally so relaxed around the rest of the team.  Thor was on his fourth or fifth helping of pancakes, shoveling them in at a record pace.  And she was just trying to get James to finish his breakfast, which was quite a challenge with his uncles so animated and fun and _distracting_ around him.  It didn’t help that Tony had been going on for a while now, trying to get James to say his name.  “Perhaps you should try your alter ego,” Thor proclaimed around a mouthful of pancake.  “Iron Man sounds far more important and inspiring than Tony does.”

Tony scoffed.  “Yeah, well, anything is better than the usual.  ‘Mama’.  ‘Dada’.  Too boring for a little Avenger.”

“He’s not a little Avenger,” Natasha reminded, gritting her teeth in irritation when James turned at the last second and the spoonful of oatmeal ended up all over his cheek instead of in his mouth.  From there it went right into his hair when he got his little hands into it.  She groaned.

“He’s Captain America and Black Widow’s son,” Tony reminded, as if anyone could forget that.  As if to emphasize the point, James banged the tray of his high chair so hard that it nearly rattled the adjacent breakfast table.  “Whoa!  See?  Avenger.  Therefore, his first word needs to be Avengers-related.  And, let’s face it, Iron Man is the coolest of all of us.  Hawkeye?  Lame.  The Hulk?”  Bruce cocked an eyebrow.  “Somewhat lame.  Thor?  Totally lame.”

“One word, though,” Bucky threw in.  “One syllable even, so it’s easier to say.”

“I doubt he’ll be able to produce the ‘th’ sound,” Bruce reminded, flipping a page of his newspaper.  Thor scowled a little.  “And if we’re going to continue down this road of stupidity, shouldn’t his first ‘Avengers’-related word have something to do with his parents?”

“Lame,” Tony dismissed again.  He turned back to James.  “Say it with me, kiddo.  ‘Iron Man’.”  Again he drew it out, annunciating every sound very carefully.  Bucky rolled his eyes.  “You try it, James.  ‘Iron Man’.”

“Maaaa,” James said.  He banged his tray again, sending his sippy cup of juice flying and a glob of oatmeal splattering right onto Natasha’s shirt.

Tony grimaced at the mess.  “Oops?”  Natasha glared at him, pouring every bit of what she knew to be legendary wrath into it, before standing and searching for a paper towel to clean off her blouse.  Tony didn’t even hand her a napkin, despite the pile being right next to him.  He was already babbling on.  “Hey, he said half of ‘Iron Man’, though.  So that’s cool.”

“You’re full of crap, Stark,” Bucky declared, shaking his head.

Tony looked aghast.  “Hey, Steve doesn’t like that kind of talk.”  He glanced over his shoulder at Natasha, like he thought she wasn’t listening where she stood the other side of the kitchen island, rinsing and wiping her shirt.  She was.  Oh, yes, she was.  “You know, things like crap.”  When Natasha said nothing, he got bolder, like it was okay for him to finally run his foul mouth now that Mr. “Language!” was absent.  “Crappity crap crap–”

“Oh, grow up, Tony,” Bruce said, setting down his paper.  “Maybe it was just ‘ma’ for his _mother._   Who is trying to feed him.”

 _Thank you, Bruce._   Natasha came back to the table and took up her bowl of oatmeal again.  Determinedly, she grabbed the little spoon, gathered some of it, and went back to trying to get it into James’ mouth.  He cooperated more this time, opening wide, and she smiled at him and slid the spoon right in.  Thor downed the rest of his orange juice before setting the glass down loudly and hard enough that it was a wonder it didn’t shatter.  James laughed, raised his hands, and slammed them down again, sending more oatmeal flying.  Natasha gritted her teeth _harder_.  “If his first word should be a member of our team,” Thor said, “should it not be his father?”

“Cap?”  Tony winced, like he was really considering the merits of that.  “I guess Cap is easier to say.”

“Or his mother,” Bucky added, giving Natasha a gentle smile and a wink.  It was unlike him to be so relaxed around her.  He always seemed to be walking on eggshells, hesitant as though she’d cast him aside for what he’d done to Steve.  To them both, really.  Natasha wished they were past this; at this point it was Bucky’s insecurities driving him more than anything else.  He never seemed to believe her, no matter how many times she assured him that they weren’t so different, that they both had dark and difficult pasts, that they’d both been given a second chance to be someone better, that what was done was done and Steve loved him without reservation and they _wanted_ him in their son’s life.  Bucky never seemed capable of letting it go, of rising above his anxiety over this danger he thought he was or this legacy of anguish and misery he believed he symbolized.  So having him there, giving her that little knowing smile – _Black Widow is every bit the Avenger as Captain America is ­_ – meant a lot.  Now if only he could see that about himself.  “And while we’re on the subject, don’t you guys think we should wait for Steve for this?  I don’t think he’d appreciate missing James’ first word.”

“Guys,” Bruce said in exasperation, “you can’t control what he says or when he’s going to say it.  Like everything else with babies, it’s completely unpredictable.  He’ll say his first word when he’s ready to–”

James banged his tray yet again, looked _right_ at Tony, and very loudly proclaimed, _“Crap!”_

The entire kitchen went silent.  They all glanced among each other, faces lax with shock, eyes wide.  Then they looked to James, who giggled and reached for his juice cup.  Bruce leaned forward, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, his lips pursed questioningly.  “Did he just say–”

“No,” both Bucky and Tony replied immediately.  Normally they didn’t get along all that well for obvious reasons (not the least of which being Bucky’s involvement with Tony’s father’s death), but at the moment they were desperately closing ranks, sharing sidelong glances and stuttering.  “No,” Tony said, whiter than a sheet.

“No way,” Bucky added.

Tony shook his head.  “No, he didn’t.”

“He said ‘Cap’,” Bucky insisted, “so Thor was right.  First word was his dad.”

“Yeah, so that was cool.  Let’s–”

James giggled.  He babbled a second, and then it came out again, as clear as day.  _Clearer._   “Crap,” he said, smiling and drooling.  “Crap.  Crap!”

Tony reached over, lifted up his juice cup, and stuck it in the baby’s mouth.  “We got it, kiddo.  No need to keep saying it.  ‘Cap’.  Right.  Yeah, your dad’s the best.”

Bruce shook his head, eyes narrowed in suspicion.  “I think there was an ‘R’ in there.”

Thor smirked, enjoying his companion’s disquiet immensely.  “I, too, heard it.  He did not say ‘Cap’.  He said–”

“Nothing.  Nothing!” Tony floundered.  “Right, James?  Nothing.”  James grinned around the cup, juice dribbling out onto his bib.  Natasha had to restrain herself to stop from laughing.  She was supposed to be angry (and she was, no question about it, that her son’s first word was _that_ , that this monumental occasion had been ruined by a bunch of potty mouths who didn’t have the common sense to censor themselves around an impressionable baby without the language police there to enforce the rules).  “It was nothing, right, Barnes?”

Bucky was nodding vehemently.  “Absolutely, Stark.”

“No, there was _definitely_ an ‘R’ sound in–”

Tony moved fast, interrupting Bruce.  “Nope.  Uh-uh.  Get your hearing checked, Banner.”  Bruce shook his head as Tony stood up, rushing over to Natasha’s corner of the table.  “Here.  Lemme, uh…  Lemme finish this for you, Tasha.  You know, give you a break.  Uncle Tony can shovel in some grub.”  He practically snatched the bowl of oatmeal out of her hands, horrified, _begging_ her forgiveness with his stare as he waited for her to get up.

Bucky was moving, too.  “And I’ll get you some more coffee.  Cream and sugar, right?”

 _Well._   She smiled sweetly as she slowly rose from her chair and let Tony take her place.  “Two cream, two sugar,” she corrected.  Bucky nodded, rushing into the kitchen to fetch it.  Thor chuckled before going back to his plate of pancakes, and Bruce shook his head again, a smile plastered all over his face.  “And some orange juice, too, as long as you’re getting it.”

“Sure,” Bucky said, and he _skittered_ out of sight.

Natasha took a seat away from the mess, and her grin turned devious.  She might as well get what she could out of this.  “And if you’d be so, so kind, Tony, as to change his diaper after this and give him a nice bath, I _might_ not tell _Cap_ tain America all about his son’s first word.”

Tony blanched, the spoon of oatmeal halfway to James’ mouth.  Then he rolled his eyes.  “Ugh.  Fine.”

“Toneee,” James gurgled.  “Crap.”

Tony sighed.  “You said it, kid.”


	30. In This Sweet Madness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** A lot of people have been asking for injured Natasha, so here it is. This is quite a bit darker than normal for this story (nothing beyond the rating, though), so just be advised.

It was late – _really late_ – when Steve heard a knock at his apartment door.  He glanced over at the clock.  3:12 in the morning.  Shaking the remnants of sleep away, he stumbled out of his bed.  Then he paused, a moment of uncertainty crawling over him.  He’d just gotten back earlier that day from a mission with the STRIKE Team to China that hadn’t gone terribly well.  They’d already debriefed, but it looked like there’d be some serious fallout from the firefight in which they’d unexpectedly found themselves embroiled.  If it was something that important, though, wouldn’t SHIELD call?  Fury, Sitwell, or Hill?  He glanced back at his phone on the bedside table, but the little light that meant he had a message wasn’t flashing.  He was still uncertain enough about everything in the future, alone and paranoid enough, to spend a second wondering if this wasn’t some sort of attack or–

The knock came again, more insistent.  Steve gritted his teeth and grabbed his jeans from the top of his dresser.  He pulled them on quickly.  Then he moved on light and silent feet, grabbing his shield where it was propped against the wall near the door of his bedroom.  Sliding his arm into the straps, he made his way down the hallway to the door.  He stood there, breathing evenly, muscles loose and ready, and listened.  The third knock actually sounded weaker, softer.  More desperate.  “Rogers,” came a feminine voice that was muffled and hoarse.  “Rogers, it’s Romanoff.  Can you let me in?”

Steve dropped his defensive posture and fumbled to unlock the door.  He pulled it open quickly, concern beating through him, concern that exploded into all-out _worry_ when he saw what was on the other side.  “Natasha?”

Natasha barely raised her head.  She was soaked, shivering, dressed in a dark, oversized gray hoodie and a coat on top of that.  She looked… wrong.  Admittedly, they’d only been partners for a couple of months.  He didn’t know her all that well (at least, not as well as he wanted to).  Still, there was something definitely off, seriously so, if the sallow quality of her normally flawless, vibrant skin was any indication.  Her eyes, usually so sharp and beautiful, had a hollow glaze to them.  She wasn’t standing as straight as she typically did, either, bereft of her customary confidence and strength, hunched like she was in pain.  Something was _seriously wrong._   “Sorry,” she gasped.  “I know it’s late.”

He couldn’t get over how she looked.  “What happened?”

She seemed to have a hard time meeting his gaze, though whether from shame or something else, he couldn’t say.  “Mission went south,” she mumbled.

“That seems to be a theme today,” he commented.  She said nothing, not even quirking the smallest of grins at his attempt at levity.  Usually she at least humored him when he tried to be funny.  She always did, made him feel at ease even though he had no idea what he was doing half the time.  He’d only come out of the ice a few months ago, and everything was still _so much_ : technology and pop culture and history and this crazy new world he didn’t understand and couldn’t adapt to.  She was his teammate, his partner, the barest beginnings of a _real_ friend when he had nothing and no one, and she always wore a smile for him, whether it be coy or sly or stressed.  She had patience and understanding, helping him when he needed it and easing off when he needed space.  And this wasn’t to say he understand her, because he didn’t.  _At all._   She was Black Widow, and there was a reputation that went with that.  A cold, calculating assassin beneath the beautiful allure of a seductress.  She manipulated people, used people, _devoured_ people and reduced them down to nothing, to variables in an equation she needed to solve, tools she used for a problem she needed to fix.  That was what people said, anyway.  Steve didn’t see anything like that in her.  Well, he wasn’t naïve.  He _saw_ it.  But he saw so much more as well.

And right now he saw her teetering on the edge of collapse on his doorstep.  “Here, sorry.  Sorry.  Come on in.”

“It’s late,” she murmured again, but she took his invitation anyway, stepping inside when he moved to the left.  He closed the door behind her, his worry mounting by the second.  Last he’d heard (which was a couple of days ago), Fury had dispatched her on a mission to disarm a ring of weapons smugglers operating out of nearby Baltimore.  The job had required soft hands, someone to pose as a party goer at some shindig there.  Someone who could get close to the ringleader, get some information, and shut down their operation.  That sort of thing didn’t broker having a partner along, especially one as ill-suited to espionage as Captain America, and Steve couldn’t argue with that even though he wasn’t pleased about Natasha going alone.  He’d tried, though.  He’d mentioned one little thing about it, that he was worried about her flying solo on this, and she’d nearly bitten his head off.  That was how they’d left things, not really on the best of terms.  She’d left for her mission and he’d gone off with the STRIKE Team to help with theirs.

She finally met his gaze.  She looked more rattled, more unsure of herself, than he’d ever seen her be.  And now that she was closer, he saw bruises on her jaw.  Ugly bruises on her neck.  “I’m sorry,” she said again.

“You, uh, you look… rough.”  She gave him a half-hearted glare but didn’t argue.  He swallowed thickly, wondering if it was safe to venture this question.  “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head.  “I’m fine.”

He swallowed again.  He didn’t particularly want to get snapped at twice in two days, and she seemed a bit like a wounded animal, willing to lash out if he got too close.  He’d take the chance.  “You don’t look fine.”

Now her glare got sharper, icier.  “I’m _fine_.  I just… needed a place to crash for a minute.”  She managed some semblance of a weak smile, a shade of her normal, flirty brightness.  “Welcome to being my partner.”

“Oh… okay?”  He winced.  “How about medical?  Not that I don’t like having you here, but medical seems like a dandy choice at three in the morning.”

Her grin vanished like the rainwater dripping onto his floor.  “Call me crazy, but I don’t like doctors.”

“Neither do I.”  She seemed surprised, although he couldn’t imagine why.  He knew how well she could read him.  They shared an almost comfortable moment of silence.  Then she took a timid step deeper into his apartment.  She wasn’t strong enough to conceal her wince entirely.  “You sure?  I’ll take you.”

“No, Rogers.  Are you deaf?  I said I’m fine.”  She nearly swayed while she said that.

That worry ratcheted up even tighter inside Steve.  He knew she was supposed to be this excellent liar, but he didn’t believe her at all.  All he saw was exposure.  Fear.  _Vulnerability._ But maybe she was fine.  He couldn’t see.  Therefore, right now the most important thing was getting her to sit, getting her out of all those wet clothes before she got sick, and finding out if she was more hurt than she was letting on.  “Here.  Have a seat.  I’ll get you a towel.”

The fact that she let him guide her over to a chair at the kitchen table was more than enough evidence that she wasn’t okay.  She sat with a wince, doubling over slightly, and Steve’s heart beat faster.  He set his shield to the couch and ran down the hallway back toward the rear of his apartment.  He grabbed a couple of towels from the linen closet and raided his own closet for a warm pair of gray sweatpants that were a little small on him (even still, they’d likely drown her) and a t-shirt.  He stopped in the bathroom to take the first aid kit from under the sink.  Then he rushed back.

He flipped some more lights on.  Natasha winced at the illumination, her hair sticking to her cheeks and forehead in dark, wet clumps.  She was so pale, so pasty gray, around the cuts and bruises.  Her eyes seemed sunken and listless.  She tracked his movements through the room as he took the throw from the couch, but her efforts were without her normal attentiveness.  Steve dimmed the lights closest to them in the kitchen to spare her.  Then he dropped his load of things on the table.  “You want me to take a look?”

She grimaced again and shook her head.  “I can just…”  She looked at the couch longingly.  “I’ll sleep it off.”

“Not happening,” Steve replied firmly.  “Welcome to being my partner.”

She gasped a little laugh that sounded more like a sob.  Steve took one of the towels and wrapped it around her.  He was hesitant to touch her, both because of how she was acting and because they really didn’t know each other well enough for that level of familiarity.  He reasoned that he really had no choice.  She wasn’t doing much to dry herself, so he gently rubbed the towel over her.  “We need to get you out of these wet clothes.”

Another little laugh fled her bloodless lips as Steve went to work on the zipper of her hoodie.  “Bold, Rogers.”

“Haha,” he said humorlessly when he finally succeeded in grasping the little, slick thing and pulling it down.  He helped her peel the coat off, doing most of the work because she only seemed to want to wrap her arms around her stomach and curl forward.  Once he got the coat off, he tossed it to the side in a wet pile.  Something rattled in the pocket, and he saw keys fall out onto the floor.  “You drove here like this?”

“’m fine,” she insisted.  “Stop being such a worrywart.  Mission was a success.”

“Oh, definitely,” he muttered.  He was trying to keep calm and patient, working the sodden fabric of the hoodie off her without jostling her too much, but it was hard.  He was very worried.  She seemed really out of it, shivering in force now.  He’d seen shock before plenty of times on the battlefield, seen wounded soldiers succumb to it quickly.  He’d been struck down by it suddenly himself, when the adrenaline of a fight abruptly faded and left only the full force of previously ignored injuries to rear its ugly head.  He didn’t like the way she was breathing shallowly, the way she seemed dazed (but not quite confused, although it was hard to be sure with how good of an actress she could be), the way she was protecting her midsection like she was.  Bruised ribs could hurt terribly, and while it wasn’t that serious a matter, it shouldn’t be ignored.  Still, he didn’t want to press, even though taking her pulse and getting her to lie down would help him figure it out.  That _last_ thing he wanted was her getting angry and his intrusiveness and running back out into the cold rain in the middle of the night by herself to find another place to stay.  Somewhere to hide and lick her wounds, he supposed.  That was nonsense.  He was her partner, her friend, and he was going to make sure she was okay.  “So what happened?”

At least if she started talking, he might be able to gather more evidence about how serious this was.  She said nothing, closing her eyes and licking dried, torn lips.  Now that he’d gotten her out of the hoodie and coat, he could see the soaked black tank she had on under it.  It was sticking to her wetly glistening skin.  There was blood on her shoulder from a knife wound (maybe deep enough to need stitches) and another laceration on her right arm.  More bruising circled her wrists, and he feared what that meant and saw red just a little.  She looked like he’d been in a hell of a brawl.  He stood, fumbling for the first aid kit.  “Natasha?”

“They recognized me,” she said softly.

That seemed _really_ unlikely.  Steve knew how good at her job she was.  The best in the world.  “The arms dealers?”

She nodded, tipping her head back.  The dark welts, purple splotches, and angry ligature marks on her throat looked gruesome.  Someone had strangled her.  No wonder she was so seriously out of it.  It was a miracle she was talking as well as she was.  “Saw me.  One of them…  I knew him from before.”

Steve grabbed a few bandages from the kit and ripped the wrappers.  He knelt beside her, carefully but quickly pressing them over the shoulder wound.  It was bleeding pretty badly.  In the dim light and with all the rainwater, he hadn’t noticed until now.  He pushed hard and she gave a wrangled moan.  “Before?”

She licked her lips again, her eyes falling shut as she panted through the pain.  “Before I joined SHIELD.”

He’d read her file, of course, as part of the Avengers Initiative.  He knew she’d worked for the KGB in Russia.  However, she’d _never_ said anything about that time of her life to him before.  He got the impression that she didn’t want him to know about it.  Or that she didn’t trust him.  Or both.  Either way, it hurt, and he didn’t know what he needed to do to prove to her that it was okay.  He’d come from the army, where men held close to each other to stay alive, to stay sane and human.  In SHIELD, where the currency of the realm was secrets and the power that came from information, things didn’t seem that clear-cut.  Adapting to this cynical mindset (and adapting to a partnership dynamic) wasn’t easy.  Now wasn’t a good time to start not caring because _someone_ had done a real number on her.  Every time he looked at her, he saw _new_ bruises he hadn’t seen before, new slices and gouges and injuries.  He didn’t like how any of this made him feel.  Angry didn’t quite cover it.  Neither did frightened.  “Did Fury know the mission was compromised when he sent you?”  He couldn’t help the venom in his voice.  If Fury had assigned her this task knowing an old contact was involved and had sent her in blind…  The rage twisting in the pit of his stomach startled him, but there was nothing he wanted to do to calm it.  “Did he?”

“No,” she gasped.  “No.  No one at SHIELD knew.  Never… never told anyone.  Never told anyone what I…  He was…”  Again, the shameful secrets of her past.  She didn’t seem capable of explaining.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.  “Anyway, he got a hold of me.  Wanted to remind me where we came from.  Teach me a lesson.  I taught him one instead.”  She said that so evenly, uncaring even though it had obviously been a dark, dangerous moment, one that cost her dearly.  She was acting like none of that mattered.  Like… like _she_ didn’t matter.  Anything to complete her objectives.  Her next empty words only confirmed his fears.  “Anyway, like I said.  Mission was a success.”

Not to him.  He shook his head, lifting the sterile pad to look at the laceration beneath.  The bleeding was better after a few minutes of hard pressure, but it was still seeping.  “This needs stitches.  And it’s not the only one.  You need to go to medical.”

“No,” she whispered.

“I’ll take you.”

“No.”

“Natasha, you _need_ –”

“Please.”  He looked up at the soft word.  It was more a breath than anything else, a plea so quiet and weak and defeated he almost doubted she’d said it at all.  Now she was staring at him, imploring that he not take her anywhere, not let anyone else hurt her.  That he keep her safe.  She was shaken badly and not just physically.  The walls seemed to be coming down, and she was reaching out to him with her eyes.  “Please.  I know it’s crazy, but please…  Please let me stay.”

He sighed shakily, wishing she hadn’t asked him that, hadn’t asked him _like that._   He reached for another pad.  Accidentally he pulled the whole kit down to the floor with him.  The loud clatter made Natasha jerk, and she looked at him with half-lidded eyes.  He’d expected to see fear there, but there was nothing but a languid invitation.  Where she’d been skittish and harsh before, now she was staring at him with something of a dopey smile on her lips and appreciation in her gaze.  “You’re a good guy, Steve,” she whispered.  “All…  all kinds of perfect.”

“Don’t,” he warned at her flattery, not quite capable of keeping his ire (and his worry) out of his tone.  Some small part of him was bitter and paranoid, wondering if she’d come here because she knew she could manipulate him into doing what she wanted ( _am I that obvious?  And that pathetic?_ ).  The other part of him was simply immensely glad she was safe, that she’d escaped what they’d done to her.  And yet another part of him, the largest part, was too worried to do much more than barely function.  “This is against my better judgment.”

“How’s that different from everything else we do?” she slurred.

He barked an unhappy laugh.  “You’re not wrong.  Here.”  He grabbed another bandage, ripped open the wrapper of this one with reddened hands, and went onto his knees at her side.  He pressed that to the bleeding welt on the side of her face.  “Hold that.”  She didn’t seem quite capable of getting her hand up there, so he took it and pressed her palm to the bandage to keep it in place.  Then he dug in the kit, found the antiseptic, and squirted some onto a cotton swab.  He set to dabbing the scrapes on her face.

She grimaced a little.  “Meant it, though,” she murmured.  Her eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown so wide they were nearly black.  “Meant it.  You’re… you’re too good for us.”

“Doubt that,” he replied.

“No, no, you are.”  He blotted her split lip with the antiseptic and couldn’t deny that his hands were shaking.  She was watching him muzzily, smiling even though it must have hurt something fierce.  “You’re nice.  You’re smart.  You’re handsome.  You’re kinda like a…”  Her smile loosened into a soft thing.  A rare thing.  “Like an angel.  An avenging angel.”  She closed her eyes.  “You think I can’t see that, but I can see.  You’re–”

“You’re not thinkin’ straight,” he finished for her, flushing in embarrassment and discomfort at the compliments.  She was _never_ like this.  Not that she couldn’t flirt or butter someone up but good, but this was…  Like before.  Exposed.  Vulnerable.  Somehow _her_ under all her many lies and façades.  For that reason alone, this felt like the best privilege and the worst burden.  Were she in her right mind, she wouldn’t be so loose with him, so honest, and he knew it.  “Just stop talking and rest.”

“Gotta find you a girl,” she declared.  She closed her eyes, slumping.  He took her hand, catching it before it could fall and replacing it back over the bandage.  “A really nice girl.”

“Not interested,” he said, increasingly concerned about her pallor, “but thanks.”

“No, I can do it,” she argued.  “I’m your partner.  Know you… you don’t trust me.”  He shook his head, squinting, wondering if she meant she could find him someone or _be_ that someone, wondering if _she_ even knew what she was saying.  “Hard to trust…  For both of us.  But I’m your partner.  I’ll be…   I’m good.  Be better…”  She sighed a long, tired, _blissful_ breath.  “Shouldn’t have come.  Wanted to.  Kinda like it here…  All this sweet madness.”

She went silent.  His mind was twisting through all of that so frantically that he didn’t notice at first.  “Natasha?”  Horror stabbed through Steve as he watched her head loll back.  _Blood_ , a deep, deep red, suddenly dripped from the side of her mouth.  “Oh, God,” he whispered.  “Natasha?  Natasha!”  He shook her gently, tossing the bandages and swabs away to pat her cheek.  “Natasha, can you hear me?  Can you open your eyes?”  She didn’t.  She was still and cold.  Panic left him reeling a second.  Then he tipped her head forward so she wouldn’t choke, not caring one bit about the blood, and pressed his fingers to her carotid artery.  Her pulse was fast, too fast.  She was breathing, but just barely.  She _was_ in shock, and he felt like a moron for not acting on his suspicions earlier.

He moved fast, sweeping her out of the chair and laying her flat on his table.  He tried to wake her again, roughly knuckling her sternum.  “Natasha!  Open your eyes!  Come on!”  Still she didn’t respond, and she was getting paler by the second.  Steve breathed in quick, frightened pants, not certain of what to do.  What was the matter with her?  He frantically looked her over again.  She wasn’t bleeding anywhere significantly enough to account for this!  His eyes darted to the marks around her neck, and he quickly considered that it was some delayed effect from being choked, but…

 _Oh, no._   He yanked up her black tank.  Sure enough, there was a massive, purpling area right above her navel and to the left.  It was swollen, rigid, and warm to his touch.  She wasn’t just in shock.  It was hypovolemic shock.  She was bleeding internally.  Bleeding badly.

He moved without thinking.  She needed help, help he couldn’t give her.  Surgery, in all likelihood.  _Emergency_ surgery.  God, she’d driven all the way from Baltimore like this!  And if she was hemorrhaging internally, she could slip away quickly and without warning.  There was no time to consider, not a second to waste.  He could get her to the medical ward at the Triskelion in under fifteen minutes, which was closer than any hospital.  Taking the blanket, he covered her quickly.  “Hang on,” he implored her still form.  Then he ran to his room, snatching his phone and shoving it into his pocket before thundering back to the table.  He dropped to a crouch at her coat and scrambled for her keys; there was no way he could take her anywhere on his bike.  Standing again, mind racing and wild with panic, he lifted her bridal style into his embrace as carefully as he could.  He kept one arm under her shoulders and the other under her knees, trying to keep her legs more elevated, cradling her close to his chest.  She groaned in misery.  “Hang on, Natasha.  I’ve got you.  Just hang on.”

He was running then, not bothering to lock his door or even shut it.  His bare feet thundered down the steps of the building.  His mind was lost to him, terror sucking it dry of anything other than a desperate chant: _get her help get her help she’s dying get her help._   He burst out into the cold night, and the rain drenched him instantly.  He covered Natasha as best he could with the blanket.  “Where?” he whispered, whirling and looking up and down the street in a frenzy.  He didn’t know what her car looked like.  He’d never seen it.  “Where?  Damn it, _where?_ ”  What if she hadn’t parked here?  What if–

He could have smacked himself for his stupidity.  Sometimes the way things worked nowadays didn’t click right away.  Gritting his teeth, he fumbled with the keys he had in his left hand and thumbed the buttons on the remote until he found the one that unlocked the car.  Headlights flashed down the street, like a beacon in the night.  He sprinted through the rain.  Then he grimaced.  Of course her car was a Corvette, which meant there was no backseat.  He swore softly.  It would have to work.

He pulled open the passenger door and carefully set her down in the leather seat.  “Easy, Natasha,” he soothed when she moaned again.  She was wincing and sweating, her eyelids fluttering.  “Easy.”  He reclined the seat as far as he could so he could raise her legs as much as possible.  Lastly he strapped her in and tucked the blanket around her.  Then he rushed around, jumping across the hood and skidding to the driver’s side.  Wrenching the driver’s door open (nearly off in his near panic), he slid in and slammed it shut.

He still wasn’t used to modern cars, but getting the key in the ignition and the engine started was easy enough.  The Corvette roared to life.  “Hang on,” he said again.  He threw the car into reverse (thankfully there was no one parked behind him) and slammed on the gas.  The tires shrieked against the wet pavement as he jetted backward.  He shifted and floored it.

A moment later they were racing to the Triskelion.  The night was very dark, rain splattering against the windshield.  Thankfully he was able to get the wipers and headlights on.  And thankfully the streets were empty.  He was speeding something fierce, but he had to get there.  He had to get her to a doctor.  She’d come to him, and he had to–

“Steve…” she moaned.

“Hang on.”  He fished his phone out of his pocket and thumbed through the contacts to find the emergency line at SHIELD.  He glanced at Natasha, watching her lick red lips and struggle to breathe, while he put the phone to his ear and waited for someone to answer.  “Come on, come on,” he murmured, darting his quick eyes between the city streets and his fading passenger.  “Come on!”  Someone finally picked up.  “Yes, this is Steve Rogers.  SHIELD 0652931.  I’m coming in with Agent Romanoff.  She’s badly hurt!”  He could hardly process the question the woman asked him, his serum-enhanced brain and senses spectacularly failing him.  “She looks like she’s got serious internal bleeding!  She’s barely conscious!”

“Steve,” Natasha moaned again.  She reached out a trembling hand.  “Steve…”

“No, I don’t know what happened exactly!  She’s in really bad shape!  Just – just have medical ready!”  He hung up the phone and took a turn a little too fast, blasting through a red light and praying to God that would be okay.  That she would be okay.  He dropped his phone to the middle console and reached over to take her hand.  It was cold and clammy, shaking violently.  He wove their fingers together, squeezing hard.  She barely squeezed back.  “Just hold on.  We’re almost there.”  She choked on her breath.  “Don’t you quit on me, Romanoff.  Don’t you dare!  Show up on my doorstep like that…”  He shook his head, hardly able to think with his pulse jackhammering between his ears.  “Why didn’t you say something?  Are you crazy?  Why didn’t you _tell_ me?  Why?  _Why?_ ”

“Don’t know…” she slurred.  Her bloody lips turned up in a weak grin.  “You’re a… you’re my partner.  Came to you.  I…”

Her fingers went limp.  Horrified again, he glanced at her where she was slumped against the passenger door.  “Natasha?”  He shook her hand roughly, trying to jolt her awake, trying to feel for her pulse, trying to get her there in time, trying to save her, trying and _trying…_   Nothing.  _“Natasha!”_


	31. Some Comfort Here

They’d taken Natasha into surgery almost an hour ago.  The second Steve had burst into the infirmary with her, they’d whisked her away, leaving him alone and asking questions no one seemed willing (or capable) of answering.  One of the nurses immediately recognized who he was and, flushing like a nervous fan, gave him a clean pair of scrubs.  He’d gone to the bathroom to change out of his blood-soaked jeans and wash up.  After that, he’d paced the length of the medical ward’s waiting room dozens of times.  He normally counted himself as a fairly patient guy, but this was nerve-wracking.  He didn’t know anything, not if she’d be okay, and the worry was unbearable.  He wasn’t quite sure why he felt so strongly, though the fact that she’d shown up on his doorstep half dead was probably contributing to it.  This was his fault.  He hadn’t seen that she was hurt so badly.  No, it was worse than that.  He _had_ seen it, and he’d let himself cast aside his doubts and suspicions and worries.  He’d let her come in, _knowing_ something was seriously wrong, instead of insisting that she go to a hospital.  Now she could be dying.

God, he couldn’t think that.  It _hurt_ so badly.  He’d lost friends before, many in fact.  Good friends and men who’d served with him and under him during the war.  And he’d lost loved ones.  His father before he’d even been born.  His mother when he’d been a young man.  Bucky.  _Bucky._   And so many other people.  The Commandos who’d passed away while he’d been in the ice.  The ones who hadn’t died were lost, too, in a different way.  And Peggy.  And maybe that was why this was so upsetting.  Granted he and Natasha weren’t terribly close; all that was between them was the tentative start of a partnership, a solid work relationship.  It was hardly even a friendship.  As Captain America and Black Widow, they were opposites.  But what he had with her was a relationship with _someone_ , a real connection, _something_ that bridged the gap between him and another person in this new world.  And maybe it was selfish, but it felt like he was losing that.  _Losing her._   For whatever reason, she’d come to him in her moment of need, _and he’d failed her._

It was enough to drive him mad.

But there was nothing more he could do other than wait.  News didn’t seem to be soon in coming, but someone else was.  About thirty minutes into his miserable and helpless exile, Clint Barton showed up.  He was wearing dark jeans and a red hooded sweatshirt that was rumpled, like he’d thrown on yesterday’s clothes in the middle of the night (which probably wasn’t far from the truth).  His face was pale and unshaven but stern and impassive.  The worry burning bright in his hazel eyes was the only sign he was rattled.  He briskly walked closer, his form taut and his words clipped.  “Rogers, you brought her in?  What’s the story?”

Steve stood from the plastic chair in which he’d been occasionally sitting when pacing had grown too boring and burdensome.  “I don’t know.  The doctors haven’t come back yet.”

Clint regarded him coldly, like he was sizing him up.  Analyzing him and measuring him.  Aside from the Battle of New York, they hadn’t spent much time together.  Steve knew he was a close friend of Natasha’s; he’d have to have been blind not to see how bothered she’d been during the hunt for the Tesseract with Barton brainwashed by Loki and used against his will.  He’d gotten the impression since then that Clint cared very deeply for her and that he wasn’t entirely pleased that Fury had reassigned her to work with Captain America (although Steve didn’t believe that was personal.  It was more grounded in the fact that Barton seemed very protective of Natasha, more so emotionally than physically).  It was more than obvious that she returned the sentiment.  They were close.  Steve didn’t know how close, and it really wasn’t his business even if a small part of him was jealous (a _very_ small part, he thought).  And it was more than obvious Clint didn’t entirely trust him.  “What happened?”

Steve shook his head.  “I don’t know.  She just showed up at my door.  She said her mission went south.  Said someone from her past recognized her.”  Clint gritted his teeth, looking away sharply like he’d _known_ that could be a possibility.  Again Steve supposed that made sense, but he didn’t like it at all.  That same ugly suspicion he’d felt in his apartment settled in the pit of his stomach.  “Did Fury know this could happen when he sent her out?”

Barton’s face was dark and malignant.  “I don’t know.  Probably not.  Why did she come to you?”

It sounded like there was hurt in his voice.  Steve didn’t know what to say.  “I don’t know!  She said she needed a place to crash.”

“So you let her crash.”  There was no masking the accusation behind those words.  Or the venom in his glare.

Steve flushed with equal parts shame and anger.  “She seemed okay!  I mean, she was hurt, but I had no idea it was that bad!  And she didn’t want to come here.  What was I supposed to do, drag her kicking and screaming?”

He expected Barton to chastise him further, to vent all that worry and anger he saw swirling beneath that falsely calm exterior, but he didn’t.  Instead he gritted his teeth and shook his head.  He walked over to one of the plastic chairs, practically vibrating with energy and anxiety, before sitting.  “Damn it,” he whispered.  “What was she thinking?”

Steve didn’t know how much he wanted to reveal.  Would he be betraying Natasha’s trust by explaining how strange she’d been acting, the things she’d said?  This was her best friend (or more), so maybe he was actually betraying her by _not_ telling him.  “I don’t think she was.  She seemed really confused.”

Clint’s expression grew darker, his eyes sharp and unhappy.  “You said she got caught by someone who knew her?”  Steve nodded, not liking the direction this was headed.  Again he couldn’t say why exactly.  Nothing about this sat well with him.  Clint closed his eyes, furthering the impression that there was more going on here than he knew, and the archer scrubbed his hands through his sleep mussed hair.  He sighed, clasping them together in front of him and leaning forward.  “God, Nat.  She probably knew she was compromised going in.”

Cold shock blasted over Steve.  “What? _She_ knew?”  Clint said nothing, shaking his head at his own thoughts.  Suddenly he seemed older, burdened, like he’d been dealing with this – whatever this was – for a long time.  Contrary to popular opinion these days, Steve didn’t just _know_ everything he needed to know, not about history or pop culture or technology.  And definitely not about the enigmatic Black Widow.  “Why would she do that?  Why would she willingly put herself in danger like that?”

“To complete the mission.”

That was… _insane._   Utter madness.  He couldn’t quite grasp it, that she’d go into a situation where she knew her life could be in jeopardy.  That she _knew_ this monster would recognize her and potentially hurt her.  She hadn’t let that stop her.  She’d said it herself: she’d had to complete the mission.  She could have done something else, called for backup, called for _help_ , called Barton or him even…  Waited until the situation was better.  _But she hadn’t._ “Why?”

Clint released another troubled, tired sigh.  “You gotta understand something about her.  She’s…”  He shook his head, like he was the one now struggling with the possibility of betraying Natasha’s trust.  “Ever since New York, well, ever since she came into SHIELD but more so now, she’s been trying to wipe the red out of her ledger.”

Steve’s brain didn’t quite process that.  “The red in her…”

“She’s making up for the past,” Clint clarified unnecessarily.  “Trying to redeem herself somehow.  Like the bad things she’s done were really her fault.  They made her do them, you know.”  That was said like it was a challenge, like he was daring Steve to contradict him or argue the point.  Maybe Barton had some image of Captain America whose morals were infallible, whose views were self-righteous, and who was completely unbending and uncompromising.  That couldn’t be further from the case.  “Not that she didn’t know it was wrong, but they trained her to be what she is from a very young age.  She was a girl when they started.  It’s all she knows.”

 _All she knows…_   He supposed he’d always figured that was the case, ever since he’d read her file.  But it had never really sunk into him, what that _meant._   His childhood hadn’t been easy by any stretch of the imagination.  He’d never known his father.  They’d been poor, destitute sometimes, and his mother had worked her fingers to the bone to support him.  He’d been sick constantly, had almost died a couple of times from pneumonia and scarlet fever, and the bullies had been particularly cruel to him.  Even still, he’d been loved through it all.  He’d had his mother, Bucky’s mother and father and sisters, Bucky himself.  He’d never been alone.  She’d obviously led a life very different from his, one that sounded harsh and sad and very, _very_ alone.

Clint had gone on while he’d been thinking about that.  “So she thinks she needs to make it right somehow.  She keeps taking on dangerous missions, putting herself out there so other people don’t have to, taking risks to get the job done.”

He liked where that was going even less.  “You mean she…”  _She wouldn’t._   “She hid how hurt she was _on purpose?_   She _wanted_ to…”  _Suffer.  Like some sort of penance.  Like she wasn’t worth helping._   “She wanted to…”

“No,” Clint said sharply as though the mere thought bothered him as much as it was currently torturing Steve with horror.  “No, no.  Nothing like that.  She’s not suicidal.  She’s just…  Listen, Rogers.”  His eyes darkened further, and a shroud came over them.  He’d seen Clint don it a few times since New York.  “You don’t know what it’s like, trying to wash your hands clean after you’ve gotten them full of blood.”  Barton was speaking more metaphorically, and Steve knew that, but he had a hard time dismissing the image of Natasha’s blood sluicing down into the drain of one of the sinks in the men’s room as he’d scrubbed his hands clean.  “Sometimes you do it just because it’s all you can do.  Sometimes you realize you need to make amends, no matter what it costs you.  And sometimes that’s a thing you do alone because there’s no way you’ll let anyone you care about get hurt or get their hands dirty on your account.”  Her harsh, demeaning refusal to allow him to go with her on this mission echoed between his ears.  He wanted to hit something.  “She probably thought it was better she take this guy out than let him hurt anyone else because she knew better than anyone just how evil he was.  She knew because she was the same, not long ago.”

Anger further flared through Steve, hot and irrational.  “That doesn’t mean she needed to go against him alone!” he returned sternly.  “And I know what it’s like to make mistakes, Barton.”

“Not like this,” Clint corrected.  It wasn’t said to disparage or incite.  It was simply a statement of fact.  “Not like she does.”

Yet again Steve didn’t know what to say to that.  He found it hard to think, hard to focus.  Natasha was back there, and they were trying to save her life.  _Her life_ that she’d apparently offered up like a sacrifice to pay for the sins of her past.  To protect innocent people, her fellow agents, him even.  Somehow knowing all of this made it worse, this knot of guilt tightening inside him until it was hard to breathe.  Like he truly had failed her.  He was her partner.  Maybe they’d only been working together for a couple of months, but if she hadn’t trusted him enough to come to him with this, to ask for his help, then he wasn’t doing his job.  He really was failing her.

He sank down beside Barton, aching with how bad he felt.  They were silent for a long time, sitting side by side and waiting.

An hour later, just as Clint had returned with a cup of coffee for himself (and surprisingly one for Steve), a doctor finally appeared down the hall behind the nurses’ station.  He was walking with Nick Fury, who looked as composed and in control as he always did despite the late hour.  He caught sight of his two agents, and his face tightened.  Both Steve and Clint stood as if jolted.  “Sir,” Steve greeted evenly, trying to hide how hard his heart was pounding.

Clint didn’t bother with a greeting.  “How is she?”

The doctor, a middle-aged, balding man with thick, old-fashioned glasses and a closely cropped gray beard, appeared dismayed.  That was enough to fill Steve with dread.  “She survived the surgery,” he declared with a weary sigh.  The relief between the two Avengers was practically a palpable thing.  Steve let his eyes slip shut and a silent prayer of gratitude went through his mind.  _Thank God.  She’s alive.  Thank God._   “But it was close.  She had a massive tear in the abdominal aorta.  She suffered some blunt force trauma to her lower left chest, and it must have hit just so as to shatter a rib.  That did a lot of damage.  She almost bled out.”

Beside him, Clint whispered something – maybe another prayer or a soft exclamation of misery, Steve couldn’t tell which – before wiping a hand down his pale face and turning away.  Steve swallowed through a painfully dry throat.  “She’s okay, though?”

The doctor appeared to be torn between being supportive and being honest.  That probably wasn’t a good sign.  “We managed to repair the internal injuries, but she has a long road ahead of her.  There’s still a chance of infection, and we need to do a CT scan to examine her brain for any ischemic damage.  It’s obvious she was strangled.”  Steve closed his eyes and looked away again.  “If she can make it through the night, I’d say that’s a good sign.  It’s clichéd but it’s true: the first twelve hours are going to be key here.  She’s in the ICU.”

“Can I see her?” Clint quickly asked.

Again, the man seemed rather hesitant to answer.  “Yes.”  He glanced between Clint and Steve.  “But one at a time.”

Clint immediately demanded he go first, and Steve was too beaten and lost in his own pain to argue.  It probably wasn’t his place, anyway.  Clint was her friend.  Clint was maybe in love with her for all he knew.  At the very least, Clint hadn’t failed her like he had.  He barely registered the archer leaving, quietly but forcefully pressing the doctor for more information as he did.  The room seemingly spun and spun, closing in around him like it was collapsing, crushing him and suffocating him.  “Cap?”

He made himself focus on Fury.  It was hard, probably harder than it should have been.  “How did this happen?” he heard himself ask.

Fury’s seemingly emotionless mask finally cracked, and hints of sympathy, worry, and regret seeped through the uncaring veneer.  “I was going to ask you that.”

It wasn’t often that Steve lost his patience, but it all but snapped, like something stretched and stretched until it had turned thin, frail, and brittle.  “She should never have gone in alone!”

“Watch your tone, Captain,” the SHIELD Director warned.

It was even less often that he was insubordinate to a superior (which Fury was, by all rights), but this time he couldn’t stop himself.  “I was sitting right there, Nick.  Right in your office.  I told you that I should go with her.  If I had, maybe this wouldn’t have happened!  I’m her partner.”

Fury stepped closer.  If he was at all offended by Steve’s seething tone, his furious eyes and threatening stature, he didn’t let it show.  He lowered his voice, even though there was no one around at this time of night.  “Yes, you’re her partner.  And, yes, you told me that.  Was I the one who told you not to?”

That gave Steve pause, and his mind went right back to what Clint had said earlier, about going it alone to protect the people.  And then he thought of what Natasha had said before, half out of her mind with pain and blood loss.  _“Hard to trust…  For both of us.  But I’m your partner.”_   She’d promised to be good, to be better.  He squeezed his eyes shut and looked away.  “It was her call,” Fury quietly reminded.  “I’ve learned long ago that Black Widow is the best in the world at what she does.  And I let her do it.  It’s not my job to make her decisions for her.  It’s not your job, either.”

“Even ones that put her at risk?”

“Especially those.”  Steve ground his teeth together at that, about to tell Fury how wrong he was, that _someone_ needed to look out for her, but before he could, the other man went on.  “Those decisions are the ones I know are the most important, even if she won’t tell me why.  You know how I know that?  Because she’s willing to put her life on the line for a chance to save people.”  Somehow that didn’t seem to be enough.  Fury realized it, of course, scrutinizing him as he tried to understand.  “It’s a good thing for our sake that no one told _you_ not to go behind enemy lines to rescue the 107 th or not to let a German scientist experiment on you for the good of the war effort or not to do the thousand and one other stupid, reckless things you did that saved the world and turned you into a legend.  And it’s a damn good thing no one stopped you from putting that plane into an ice shelf.”

“That’s not the same.”

“How isn’t it?” Fury retorted.  Honestly, Steve didn’t have an answer.  All the times he’d thrown himself in the line of fire.  Taken a hit to protect others.  Let himself be hurt to save people.  _Sacrificed_ himself so innocents could be safe.  Been a shield against evil.  Maybe that wasn’t any different than being a sword in the end.  Fury pursed his lips, giving a little nod.  “I trust her to know what needs to be done.  Perhaps you should do the same.”

That left Steve feeling even more uncertain, an unsettled ache in his heart that persisted long after Fury left.  It clung to him even when he was somehow walking with his feet subconsciously leading him where he needed to go.  He wanted to think there’d be some comfort there.  Some comfort in seeing her.  Some comfort in that logic.  He wasn’t certain there would be.

Buried deep in the medical ward was the intensive care unit.  One of the nurses very kindly let him in and then took him to Natasha’s room.  It was dark inside save for a single light above the bed, and Clint was there in a small, plastic chair.  Beside him, Natasha was lying unconscious.  She was incredibly pale, limp and lusterless red curls flat against the white of the pillow.  A blanket covered her to her chest, and underneath the thin hospital gown he could see the thickness of bandages.  There were countless machines around her.  He didn’t know what they did, but one was softly keeping rhythm along with what he imagined was her heart beating.  A cuff around her arm contracted, and little numbers appeared on one of the many computer monitors positioned around the bed.  There was tubes affixed to her arm, an IV delivering a cocktail of medications, including what appeared to be a great deal of blood, from the pole beside the bed.  She was completely unmoving, though, breathing in little, wet puffs against an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose.  Her bright, beautiful eyes were tightly sealed and ringed in darkness.  It seemed so _wrong_ to see her like this, so small and seemingly frail, so sick.  God, this felt like his fault in _every way._

Clint shifted, noticing his approach immediately of course.  He looked over his shoulder, meeting Steve’s gaze, and there was nothing but pain and grief in his eyes now.  Steve managed to divert his gaze from Natasha for a moment, just long enough undoubtedly for Clint to notice how low he was.  “She’s stable,” the archer offered quietly.  Now there was no accusation in his voice.  No heat.  Only acceptance.  Understanding.

“That’s good?”  Somehow it came out as a question and a weak one at that.

“Yeah.  She’ll be fine.”  Steve wanted to question him, to give an outlet to all the doubt in his heart, but he didn’t feel up to it.  Defeat had him firmly by the neck, it seemed, dragging him along, strangling him as it did.  And Clint went on, anyway.  “She’s a fighter.  No matter what else she’s been in her life, she’s always been that.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Steve couldn’t keep the bitterness from his tone.  Not entirely.  “I should’ve…  I should’ve forced her to come here right away.”

The other man gave a wry laugh.  “So you said.  But you know what?  I don’t think even Captain America is strong enough to make Black Widow do something she doesn’t want to.”

The joke did nothing to alleviate his tension or his guilt, even if he did give a bit of a hoarse laugh.  It almost died in his throat.  He breathed through the pain in his chest, fighting to muster up enough courage to confess more.  “I knew she was hurt.  I saw it.  I _knew_ she was lying to me.  And I let her do it.  If I hadn’t…”

Clint tipped his head.  “Don’t beat yourself up too much, Cap.”  He stood, setting Natasha’s hand back to the bed.  Steve hadn’t realized he’d been holding it until now.  “She came to you for a reason.”  Steve’s face fractured in confusion as Clint turned to him.  “Obviously she trusted you to take care of her.”

Steve didn’t quite understand that at first.  It didn’t seem right.  It didn’t seem possible, that of all the places she could have gone, she’d come to _him_ because she’d _trusted_ him to take care of _her_ , take care of her when she couldn’t.  She’d known she was weak, vulnerable, and hurt.  She’d known that she’d been compromised and exposed.  As confused and battered as she’d been, that thought – that he was _safe_ and _comfort_ to her – had stuck in her head and heart.  It had driven her, guided her.  She’d known that he would save her.

Suddenly that awful ache in his heart eased a bit, and he could breathe again.

Clint nodded, wiping his tired eyes a moment, before pushing past him.  “Mind sitting with her here for a while?  I need to make some calls.”

And, just like that, he took Clint’s place.  He sat at her bedside, and there he stayed for hours.  He hardly moved, carefully watching the machines keep track of her vital signs, watching her sleep, watching her breathe, counting, listening, making sure she kept doing it.  She did.  Slowly and evenly.  Peacefully.  He watched the nurses come and go, bearing bandages and new bags for the IV, gently examining her.  He watched, keeping a constant vigil, _making sure_ she knew she wasn’t alone.  It took some time (and some courage) but he finally laid his hand over hers.  Hers was so much smaller than his, but he knew there was incredible power in those fingers.  He’d seen it, felt it.  _She’s a fighter._   He thought of how their fingers had woven together in the car, how she’d been reaching for him, struggling to hold onto him.  That made him hang onto her now, getting braver still, and he slid their fingers together, curling his through hers and laying his other hand atop them.  “You fight, Natasha,” he softly implored.  “You can do it.  I may not know anything else about you, but I know that.  You _fight._ ”

The night wore on.  She didn’t wake.  The doctor came, pleased that she was continuing to remain stable but worried that she hadn’t yet shown any signs of consciousness.  She really hadn’t, because Steve had been watching carefully, trying not to lose his faith.  He hadn’t let her hand go, caressing it gently, squeezing it as he whispered encouragement like she could hear him.  He’d been on the other side of this situation enough times to understand how important it was to _know_ someone was there, even if the words couldn’t quite be heard and the tender touches couldn’t quite be felt.  And he knew how important it was to pray.  He’d done that before, too.  While his mother had been dying.  After Bucky had been lost.  He did it now.  He wasn’t sure what he believed anymore when it came to God, but he still believed in hope.

And he believed in her, now more than ever.

Clint came back some hours later (although Steve wasn’t quite sure he’d ever really left).  It was morning.  He offered to take over so Steve could go home and get cleaned up, which he reluctantly did.  He reached his apartment with a new day bright upon him.  The sunlight streamed into his living room, illuminating horrors from the night before, and nothing looked quite real or right.  The mess on his floor.  The open first aid kit.  Blood and discarded bandages.  The pile of Natasha’s wet clothes.  He cleaned it all up, not feeling as he did it (at least, not feeling anything other than stern confidence that everything would somehow be okay).  After showering and dressing, he even washed her things, dried them, and folded them.  He ignored the messages on his phone, shoveling a breakfast that tasted like nothing into his mouth, and found himself going right back to the Triskelion with her clothes bundled into a bag.  She’d want them back when this was over, he reasoned.  She’d need something to dress in so she could go home.

Barton was exactly where he’d left him.  Now Steve was the one to bring him a cup of coffee.  He didn’t know if the doctors had raised their ban on more than one person being in the ICU room because no one bothered them.  They sat in comfortable silence, watching Natasha, drinking their coffee.  Eventually the doctor came by and said her vitals were steady enough to take her off the oxygen, replacing the mask on her face with a nasal cannula.  She was still so pale, though, and she hadn’t woken up.  When Steve questioned the doctor about that, the man told him there was nothing they could do but wait and see.

So they waited again, hours more.  The silence was comfortable, companionable even, neither of them much feeling the need to fill the quiet with idle and useless palaver.  Clint went over mission reports, doing “paperless paperwork” as he explained, and as he did that he made comments, laughing over the stupidity of this or commenting on the ridiculousness of that.  At first Steve thought he was talking to him, but then he realized the other man was talking to Natasha, making references Steve didn’t get and chuckling over inside jokes Steve didn’t know.  He thought about leaving, about letting them have this sweet, private moment, but just when he was about to tell himself he wasn’t needed here anymore, Barton was summoned by Fury, and Steve was alone with Natasha again.

He exhaled slowly, gathering his rattled composure.  Then he sat and took up Natasha’s hand anew.  He sat in silence for a while, going right back to stroking her fingers.  He watched the monitors, watched her lax face, watched and watched.  It had almost been twelve hours since she’d shown up on his doorstep.  It felt like an eternity.  “Come on, Natasha,” he implored gently.  “Wake up.”  He managed a weak smile.  “You promised me you’d find me someone.  A date.  I’ve…  I’ve never been on one.  Pathetic, right?  You’ll probably laugh at me, but then you’ll do just what you promised and find me a…”  He swallowed around a lump in his throat.  “A really sweet girl.”  She was still, silent.  With great effort, he swallowed again.  “So wake up.  Wake up.”

Not long after that, she did.

He was dozing lightly in his chair when he felt a small squeeze.  Immediately he jerked awake, and he looked to her only to find her staring right back at him.  Her eyes were cloudy with drugs and confusion, not quite there again, but this time the haze wasn’t nearly so disturbing.  The pink of her tongue darted out to wet her lips.  “Rogers?”

Like she’d turned into something hotter than a fire, he dropped her hand.  “Yeah,” he stammered nervously.  “Yeah.”  She coughed a little, and he immediately went to the little table beside the bed to pour some water into a cup.  He put a straw in it before returning to her side.  “Here.”

She tried to reach for it, but she was clearly too weak to do it.  He wasn’t sure if she’d be okay with him helping her, but there didn’t seem to be much choice.  She couldn’t do it herself, so he guided the straw between her lips.  She seemed hesitant at first, but then she drank.  “Thanks,” she whispered when she was finished.  He nodded, setting the cup down.  “What…  What happened?”  He turned back to her, surprised at the question (though he supposed he shouldn’t have been).  “Why are you here?”

That alarmed him even more.  “You…  You don’t remember last night?”

Confusion furrowed her brow.  She winced, blinking repeatedly like she was trying to clear her vision.  And she didn’t answer.  He took that to mean that she didn’t, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.  Relieved in a way.  Disappointed in another.  She licked her lips again, faltering.  “Did we…”

 _Did we what?_ “You, uh…  You took a bad hit.  You’re going to be okay, though,” he assured softly.  “You’re going to be fine.”

She squinted at him, like she couldn’t understand that, either.  And he still hadn’t answered why he was there.  He couldn’t bring himself to tell her all that had happened, how she’d shown up at his doorstep, soaked and bleeding to death inside.  What she’d told him.  How open she’d been.  What she’d said about him.  How he’d rushed her here, begging, _begging_ her not to leave him.  He didn’t tell her any of that, and he wasn’t going to.  He wasn’t supposed to be there.  Not really.  So he smiled feebly.  “I’ll go get Barton.”

He moved to do that, but before he could leave, she grasped his wrist.  Her grip was terribly weak, fingers tremoring.  But they were stubborn and insistent.  “Steve…”  Her voice was faint, whittled down to nothing by suffering and sleep.  “Please stay.”  Yet again he didn’t know what to do or say.  He stood like an idiot, staring at her as she struggled to stay awake, eyelids fluttering and lips somehow curling into a smile.  “Stay,” she said again.  “Please don’t leave.”

“You sure?”

That smile grew stronger.  Sly.  “Welcome… welcome to being my partner.”

He couldn’t help but laugh.  Then he went back to his chair and sat.  Still her grip on his hand stayed firm, even as he adjusted it to fold their fingers together more properly.  “You’re a… you’re a good guy, Steve,” she whispered.  She smiled more broadly, barely keeping her eyes open to look at him.  “Like you here.  With me.”  He gave a soft laugh, shaking his head.  “You came to me.”

“Not quite,” he amended.

She hummed, letting her eyes slip shut.  “Stay?  Just for a while?”

“Yeah, Nat.  I’ll stay.”

She fell asleep again almost instantly, and he let her go.  He thought about her, about what he’d learned.  The only things that really mattered, he supposed.  No matter what she had been, she was a hero now.  They weren’t so different.  They were partners.  _Partners._ Perhaps…  He couldn’t help but think then about what she’d called him when she’d been delirious and nearly dreaming.  Maybe she didn’t remember, and maybe that was for the best.  He would never forget.  _An angel._   He wasn’t one, he knew.  Not nearly.  And he wasn’t perfect.  But she’d said it, and just maybe she meant it.  Someone she trusted.  Someone to catch her if she fell, to take care of her, to save her in any way she needed saving.  Maybe there was comfort to be found in that.  What he could give her.  What she was already giving him.

So he’d stay.  He’d stay as long as she wanted him.


	32. Not Happening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I don't know any parents who haven't been in this situation once or twice. It's amazing we ever manage to have more kids ;-). Enjoy, everyone!

Come hell or high water, she and Steve were getting some time alone tonight.

Life had been hectic of late.  With a three year old and a seven year old, there was never a dull moment.  Between James’ activities in second grade, Joseph starting preschool, housework _and_ homework, missions, meetings, _public appearances_ …  Natasha could hardly catch her breath.  The boys alone had enough strength, smarts, stamina, and stubbornness to run anyone ragged, but everything else on top of the normal pandemonium of parenting just felt like too much.  She’d been so busy with SHIELD, with helping Fury plan and manage missions, and Steve had been just as busy with the Avengers.  The team had done two huge operations against AIM and HYDRA in the last month, and he’d been gone for days at a time for each one.  He’d even been summoned to the White House for some sort of PR event for the army with the President.  She’d been down to DC, as well.  And to Moscow, to try and smooth over the Russian Prime Minister’s feathers after the Avengers ended up battling a contingent of robot warriors in Kursk.  And to London to coordinate with SHIELD’s satellite offices.  While Steve was away, she was home alone with the boys.  And when she was gone, he was there with them.

There was more, too.  When it wasn’t that sort of business, it was school open houses and field trips and soccer (James loved it) and toddler story hour at the library (Joseph loved that).  Somewhere in there there was also laundry and dishes and cooking and keeping the house from falling into complete disarray.  It was endless.  Endless work, an endless list of things to do, endlessly coming and going.  All of this craziness had led to one thing: she had hardly seen her husband for what seemed like forever.

They were continually passing in the night, so to speak.  He’d come home, late and tired, and sometimes she was gone the next morning before he’d even really seen her.  She’d made dinner only to devour it in seemingly two bites before retiring to their den to do paperwork and sign off on field reports.  It was madness.  She had vague memories of kissing a few times, maybe telling him a thing or two about her day, him asking about the kids, her giving a report…  It was a blur of that, of quick pecks and tired grins and one moment of _what in the world were we thinking?_   And it went on a while, the both of them so ridiculously busy, before it even occurred to her how much she missed him.  How much she missed _them_.  She’d come to their room one night after finally finishing with bedtime, intending to ask him if he was feeling as rundown and _lonely_ as she was, but he’d already been passed out, snoring lightly with his StarkPads and files and work spread all around him.  She’d stood there, so in need of talking and cuddling and just _decompressing_ with him, that it was all she could do not to cry.

She’d decided there and then that if she didn’t do something to get them some time together, she probably _would_ cry.  And she didn’t do things like that.  No, she was still Black Widow, even after almost ten years of marriage and two children.  Therefore, she’d complete this like she completed any other mission.  She meticulously selected an evening where the boys had no prior engagements.  Then she went out of her way to cancel all of her appointments and decided to rearrange her schedule so she could blatantly disregard all her work.  _Then_ she made sure Steve would be home, went out of her way, in fact, to accomplish it.  She didn’t often do things to surprise him, and this felt like a good enough occasion ( _making_ it an occasion _at all_ felt good enough, honestly), so she fed the boys early, got them ready for bed early, and let them wait up for Steve.  Exhaustion won out over cooking, so she ordered in and prayed he wasn’t late coming back from the Avengers complex.

He wasn’t.  He came in with a burst of warm, humid air, the last hurrah of summer, looking tired, hungry, and a little dirty.  “Dad!” James shouted, springing up from the couch to go to him.

“Daddy,” Joseph yelled, doing the same.

No matter how weary he was, Steve always made time for his sons, and he scooped them up, asking each about school that day in turn.  He carried them inside, somehow managing to set his shield down (Natasha noted it was rather scorched looking – what in the world had he been up to that day?) before heading over to her where she stood at the kitchen table.  “Hey,” he said quietly, offering her a quick kiss.

“Hi.  You okay?”

“Yeah.  Tired.  How come they’re ready for bed already?  It’s not even seven.”

She couldn’t help a coy smile.  It was time to put her plan into effect.  She could hardly believe how excited she was.  She was nearly _giddy_ with it.  “Because they’re going to bed early,” she declared lowly, throwing everything into the sultry way she was looking at him.  She still had it; she knew she did.  However, seeing the way his face loosened with surprise and then dawning understanding and finally blatant anticipation felt so good.  Sweet validation.  “I ordered dinner.  Should be here in a few minutes.  No SHIELD.  No Avengers.  No work.”  She leaned closer as he set the squirming children down, kissing him more soundly.  “No kids.”  She kissed him again, planting her hands on his chest and slowly running them up his shoulders.  “Just you.”  A third kiss, this one deeper and longer.  She hardly pulled away for a breath, purring into his lips.  “And me.”

Suddenly he looked awake.  Very much so.  “C’mon, boys,” he said, turning to them where they’d gone back to their toys, “time for bed.”

“But it’s Friday!” James whined.

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve firmly replied, reaching for Joseph again.  Joe was always more pliant, so snuggly and loving, and he came right over, his red hair sticking up everywhere despite how Natasha had brushed and smoothed it down after his bath.  James pouted, of course.  He’d gotten very good at it.  “Come on.  If you go to bed nice, when we get up in the morning, we’ll play catch first thing.  Then I’ll take you guys down to the lake.”

That made James brighten.  “You’re not working tomorrow?”

“Nope.”  The little boy’s face broke into a huge smile, Steve’s smile through and through, and all signs of his earlier displeasure pretty much vanished.  Steve lifted Joseph over his shoulder, where he was laughing and squirming ( _don’t get them riled up before bed!_ ) before scooping up James as well.  “Let’s go.”

“Story, Daddy?” Joseph asked.  “Curious George?”

“Sure, little guy.”

“I hate Curious George,” James grumbled as Steve hefted him up higher.  He wrapped his arms around his father’s neck as they went upstairs.  Natasha heard Joseph say something, then James whining, then Joseph whining back, and then Steve telling them both to quit it and that he’d read two stories (begrudgingly if the tone of his voice was any indication).  She smiled and went to set the table and tried to be patient.

It took about four stories and a half an hour for Steve to get James and Joseph to sleep, but to sleep they went.  Then she heard the sound of the shower.  He took a fast one, and then he crept downstairs; for a large man, it never ceased to amaze her how quiet he could be.  She pretended not to notice his approach, even though her every sense, her every nerve and thought and feeling, was focused solely on him.  She poured two glasses of wine as he slipped his arms around her from behind, lips descending onto the nape of her neck.  “They’re down.”  She hummed her understanding, reaching behind her to twine her fingers lightly through his damp hair at the back of his neck.  He’d been so busy that it had grown a little longer than he usually kept it, and she had to admit that she rather liked it this way.  “Nice.  You arranged this?”

She’d set the table for two, complete with candles, and dimmed the lights.  Thunder rumbled in the distance, a fall storm rolling closer.  A breeze brushed through the open kitchen window, the long shadows of evening creating a peaceful, ethereal moment despite the quiet grumbling.  Natasha sighed as Steve worshipped her neck and shoulder, letting herself melt into it.  “Yeah.  I’ve missed this.  Missed you.”  He chuckled into her skin.  She turned in his embrace, offering him his glass of wine.  “Cheers?”

“To a night alone,” he agreed after he took the glass.  He clinked it to hers.  “Thanks to you.  You knew just what I needed.”

“Funny how that works,” she said with another sultry smile after sipping her drink.

He cocked an eyebrow and set his glass down without drinking, and she was about to tell him that was reportedly bad luck, not drinking after a toast, but she didn’t.  Maybe that should have been a sign?  Or maybe that was what jinxed it all?  Hard to tell, in retrospect.  Instead she set her own glass down as he hooked his index fingers through the belt loops of her black jeans and tugged her closer.  “Well, since you planned this, what did you want to do with all our free time?”

She let herself be pulled. “I had a few ideas.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”  She leaned her face up to ghost her lips over his, teasing.  Tantalizing.  She still got such a rush from this, from the power she knew she had over him, even after years of using it.  She smiled sweetly and pushed him back.  “But after dinner.  I’m starved.”

He laughed.  “Alright.  I guess we have all night.”

They settled on the couch.  Steve talked about his day, that the Avengers (actually, just he and Tony – they’d been the only ones around) had been deployed to aid in a minor earthquake in Chile, helping evacuate and clear wreckage to look for survivors (which explained why he’d been so dirty and fatigued).  She talked about the latest round of issues facing SHIELD, office gossip (she’d never admit to anyone that she engaged in it, but she did), this international crisis nearly averted or that mission that was coming up.  She practically sat in his lap, one leg thrown over him, and he had a large hand wrapped around her calf, stroking up under her jeans.  It had been so long since they’d done anything like this, and it took her back to DC, back to when they’d first started with each other, when everything had been new and exciting.  When it had been skin to be tentatively touched for the first time and bodies to be carefully explored and mapped.  There was a little of that now, just on account of the fact that they _hadn’t_ done anything like this in a while.

And one thing quickly led to another, and pretty soon Steve’s little caresses up and down her calf from to her knee to her ankle went higher, and the little kisses she was pressing into his neck got hotter and more fervent and more in the direction of his mouth.  Then he was pulling her right into his lap and they were _really_ kissing, deep and passionate.  Thunder rumbled louder, almost as loud as Natasha’s heart was pounding in exhilaration, and then–

The doorbell rang.

Steve groaned in disappointment.  Natasha laughed lightly into his jaw.  “I’ll get it.”  She slid off of him.  By the time she came back, though, the box of pizza and the bag of cartons of pasta and salad in her hands, she saw Steve was gone.  She was surprised and worried for a second until she heard Joseph’s sleepy voice upstairs and Steve’s lower tone responding.  Quickly she went about getting their dinner ready, listening as Steve guided their younger son back into his bed.  He returned a moment later.  “Thunder woke him up.”  Joseph was a terribly light sleeper, worse than she was even.  Again, this probably should have been a warning sign.  Probably.  They both sat down to dinner and devoured it, talking less and less and getting more and more tired.  She wanted to savor it, to make more of an event out of their first meal in _ages_ that was just the two of them, but eating quickly turned it into something perfunctory.  The weight of so many long, exhausting days back to back was too much to ignore.  Besides, she had _other_ plans she wanted to get to before she crashed.

She was doing the dishes that he was bringing in from the table when a particularly bright flash of lightning and a loud crack of thunder had Joseph screaming again.  Steve went upstairs, taking the steps two at a time in a desperate attempt to get up there and soothe him before he really got going.  Natasha stood at the sink, tense and still and cursing the weather.  Why, tonight of _all_ nights, did it have to be storming?  Again she could hear Steve shushing him.  Then there was something worse, the sound of James’ voice and his feet in the hallway, stepping on that spot that always creaked.  _No,_ she thought with a grimace, rushing through the rest of her work so she could help Steve before this got out of hand.  _This is not happening.  No, no, no…_

By the time she got up there, Steve had already gotten Joseph back to sleep.  He was closing the blinds in James’ room, softly explaining to him that there was nothing to be afraid of, that the storm was still pretty far away.  Natasha stood in the doorway, part of her wanting to go in and comfort her son – _don’t do that_ – and part of her worrying that if she did, the gig would be up, so to speak.  He’d want nothing but her.  So she waited in the shadows, watched Steve tuck James back in, praying with every fiber of her being that _he_ _just went back to sleep._   Thank God, he did, and Steve tiptoed out and closed the door.

All it took was one knowing look, and they were rushing down the hallway to their bedroom.  The minute they got inside, clothes were ripped off (literally ripped – she heard her blouse tear and saw Steve blanch in horror but she smothered his apology with kisses) and tossed aside on their way to the bed.  Hands were frantic, lips even more so.  Natasha fell back onto the mattress, crushed under him – _God, this feels good_ – and peeling off his shirt.  He kissed his way down her chest, _hastily_ , like there was some invisible timer counting down.  There was in all likelihood.  Her eyes snapped open at a creak near James’ room.  That annoying spot in the hall that always creaked.  “Door!” she hissed, pushing Steve away as he tried to pull her jeans off, and he staggered back to the door that was wide open.

“Daddy?  Daddy, can I get a glass of water?”

Steve’s head rolled back in exasperation, and he grabbed a pair of pajama pants from one of his dresser drawers and slid them on.  He was gone then, closing the door mostly behind him, and Natasha let herself sink into the bed in frustration.  She drummed her fingernails on her naked stomach, trying not to get angry at things that just couldn’t be controlled, listening again.  “Daddy, I can’t sleep.”

“Try.”

“But it’s too bright.  And I don’t like thunder.”

“ _Try_ , James.”

“Can I sleep with you and Mommy?”

Natasha grimaced.  She didn’t hear Steve’s answer – _it had been better be no_ – as he went to the bathroom to get James his water.  In the moments that followed, she became restless waiting, so she sat up and went to find a nightgown.  There were a few nicer ones in the drawer, silk and satin and revealing in all the right places, but at this point…  Well, she hedged her bets, picking a cotton one that wasn’t quite what she might have selected to seduce her man but something not as ratty as her old pajamas.  She went to the bathroom to brush her hair and teeth, trying to ignore the swirling pool of desire that had settled low inside her and the equally pressing but infinitely less pleasant knot of frustration and impatience in her chest.  All her plans felt like they were teetering on the edge of complete destruction.  When she came back out, lightning flashed, and she saw a little lump burrowed under the duvet of their bed.

Now Natasha tipped her head back, looking to the ceiling in exasperation.  She walked over on bare feet, gently pulling the duvet back and finding Joseph snuggled up inside, fast asleep.  Little angel.  Well, more like little sneak.  James was never very quiet about _anything_ , but Joseph was a lot more like her, reserved, fleet, and cunning.  Her annoyance dissipated as she looked down on him (how could she stay angry with anything so cute?).  Then she sighed and picked him up, unable to resist planting a few kisses in his red hair, and headed to the door.

She ran into Steve as he came back.  “Here,” she whispered.  He gave her a wan look, but she just smiled sweetly and deposited the toddler in his arms.  As she strolled back to their bed, she purposefully let the strap of her nightgown fall down, purposefully swayed her backside at him, _purposefully_ gazed at him over her now exposed shoulder with an inviting smile.  “Hurry.”

He was gone and back minus the baby in a flash, shutting the door behind him.  And he wasn’t too subtle then about what he wanted and how he wanted it, which was fine with her.  He manhandled her onto their bed, hands roaming up her body, his large frame pinning her down on her back to have his way with her.  “Now… where was I?”  She laughed, and he grinned like an idiot as he pulled her nightgown down, careful not to rip anything this time, so he could get at the tender skin over her heart.  “Here?”  He maneuvered the fabric further, drifting down lower.  “Here maybe?”  The roughness of his unshaven chin scraped lightly over her skin as he kissed down to her stomach, pushing the nightgown up now.  “Here?”  His lips traced around her navel.  “Why did you even bother putting this on?”

“Get it off me then, Captain.”

“Aye-aye.”

“Mommy?”

Steve groaned, wearily dropping his head down onto her stomach.  “Lord Almighty.”

“We’re cursed,” Natasha whispered, dropping her forearm over her eyes.  “Absolutely unbelievable.”

“Mommy?  Mom?  _Mom._ ”

Natasha sighed irately.  “What is it, James?”

“Monster in my room,” came the muffled, timid voice through the door.  “Monster in Joey’s room, too.”

“Mama,” came another muffled voice.  “We’re scared.”

Steve gave something that was a marriage between a hapless chuckle and a whine, levering himself up off the bed.  He went to the door, bathed in the flash of brightness from their bedroom window, and opened it to reveal the brothers standing there, James with his Captain Ameribear (she was never going to forgive Tony for giving her son that) and Joe with his little blankie.  “Can we sleep with you?” James asked, looking up at Steve with ridiculously huge blue eyes.  Lord, he was laying it on thick.

Steve shook his head.  “What’s the matter with you two tonight?  Mom and dad are just… we just…”  James’ expression turned downright pathetic, all trembling lips and innocent eyes just teeming with the appropriate amount of tears.  _Don’t you dare, Rogers._   Captain America, the paragon of determination, of steadfast resilience, a symbol to the world of strength and valor…  He melted.  He always did.  He turned around and gazed sadly at her.  “Maybe we should just admit defeat on this one.”

“No,” Natasha said adamantly, hopping out of bed.  “Never admit defeat.  Never give in.  Never surrender.”

Steve quirked a smile.  “That your Winston Churchill impression?  Pretty poor.  I know ’cause I met him.”

She glared at him, and he stopped joking and looked as pathetic as his sons.  “This is our night,” she declared.  “Ours.  Nothing is going to ruin it.  It’s not happening.”  She stopped in front of her boy.  She didn’t care what it would take.  “So you two.  Bed.”

She took James to his room.  Steve took Joseph.  The storm was getting close, and she shut James’ window so the blinds would stop rattling.  Then she tucked him in.  “Go to sleep now.”

“But I wanna sleep with you,” James murmured.  She could see he was really tired; it was presently way past their bedtime.  And he probably was genuinely scared of the storm.  She felt guilty for a moment at the sad glimmer in his eyes.  _For a moment._   But she quickly recalled their evening alone was slipping away.  “Please, Mommy?  Please?”

“Not tonight, baby,” she said, summoning what she hoped was a really comforting smile.  “Now here’s Captain Ameribear.”  She put the teddy bear with its little felt shield right up next to James.  “He’ll keep you safe.  There are no monsters, nothing to be scared of.  The thunder’s loud, I know, but it’s fine.  Really.”  She brushed his hair back.  “You just close your eyes and try to sleep, okay?  If you try hard enough and fast enough, you might fall asleep before the storm even gets here.  And I’ll leave the hallway light on, alright?”  James pulled his covers up over himself, leaving only the blue of his eyes peeking out.  He nodded timidly, and she smiled.  “There’s my brave, big boy.”  She kissed his forehead and then his nose before leaving.

She left James’ door open enough so that the hallway light shone inside.  Back down a bit, Steve was emerging from Joseph’s room, also leaving the door cracked.  She snatched his arm on the way by him and forcefully dragged him back to their room.  No more playing around.  Right toward their bed she pushed him, closing the door behind them with her foot, and then she pounced.  “Whoa!” he breathed as she pinned him possessively and straddled him.  She grabbed his hands and put them on her hips.  “Whoa, there.  Easy.”

“No time for easy,” she snarled, and she positively _attacked_ him.  She leaned down, ravaging his mouth, kissing hard and fast because she wasn’t giving this up.  No, she refused to surrender.  _Refused._  They could do this fast.  If they had to, they could.  And they _would_.  She’d settle for that.  Cut her losses and take what she could.  This was _their_ night and they were going to have some time together and _that was that_.  She’d waited too long, been too tired and too stressed, and they _deserved_ this, and everything and everyone else could just wait for a few minutes!

It wasn’t happening.

Thunder cracked so loud that the house _shook_ , and the power went out.  The rain came in a downpour.  Natasha leaned up, shocked, listening to the roar of it against the roof.  Sure enough, she heard the patter of feet out in the hall.

She closed her eyes and accepted defeat.

A few minutes later, both James and Joseph were fast asleep in their bed, snuggled up to their parents and each other.  The storm was raging outside, but it was quiet and calm in their room.  Joseph was cuddled up on Steve’s chest, and James was breathing evenly into Natasha’s neck.  She looked across the bed at Steve, who shook his head with a reluctant smile on his face.  She didn’t know whether or not she wanted to hit him or laugh at all.  As it was, she did neither, because he was quick to join his sons in the land of Nod, and that was pretty much that.

The next morning, the boys were up ridiculously early.  Natasha dozed, burrowing under the covers, while they climbed all over both her and Steve.  Thankfully, Steve got up with a groan and herded them out of the room before they could wake her all the way.  She luxuriated in bed for a bit, drifting in and out of sleep contentedly.  Sometime after that (it could have been hours, but somehow she knew it wasn’t), the bed dipped beside her.  Steve brushed the hair from her neck and shoulders, gathering it on the pillows out of the way, before nuzzling in close.  “You awake?”

“Hmm.  No.”

She could practically feel his devious grin against her shoulder blade.  “I got rid of ’em.”

“Who?”

“Our sons.  I got rid of ’em.”

Surprised, she cracked open her eyes and rolled over right into his waiting arms and chest.  “What?”

His grin turned rakish.  “Buck took them down to the lake.”

“You called _Bucky?_ ”

He brushed her hair out of her face.  “Yep.  And I told him to _really_ take his time.”  She didn’t process that for a few dazed moments, that Steve had actually called Bucky to take the kids off their hands so they could _finally_ have some time to themselves…  He seemed to read her mind, and he was beaming now.  He was ridiculously proud of himself.  “I can make my own arrangements sometimes.”

Again she didn’t know if she wanted to smack him or laugh.  As it turned out, though, once again she did neither because he kissed her hard and pulled the duvet up over them both.  “Sometimes,” she finally gasped when he let her up for air.  Finally.  _Finally._  They were _alone_ and they could be together…  No work or kids.  No interruptions.  No distractions.  She giggled, not caring one bit how ridiculous that sounded, and all that excitement came rushing back.  “This is really happening?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, kissing her again.  “It’s happening.  Just what we needed.”

“I love you.”

“I know, but show me anyway.  We’ve got time.”


	33. Under Wraps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** So you know that scene in _What's Your Number?_ where Chris Evans' character is looking at Anna Faris' character when she's wearing pretty much nothing but his shirt and he seems like he wants to devour her? Think of that for this one :-). And I know someone asked for Natasha being insecure about her body, but I didn't write down who it was. Sorry! Whoever you are, this one is for you.

It was absolutely ridiculous, and Natasha _knew_ it, but she just couldn’t stop.

She was nervous about her body.

This was so not like her.  But she’d had a baby six months ago (her second baby) and… well…  Things weren’t bouncing back after Joseph like they had after James.  She knew she was being overly hard on herself.  Overly critical.  Overly picky.  She’d lost almost all the baby weight almost instantly, and the serum in her veins (not nearly as powerful as Steve’s, granted, but powerful enough) had helped her quickly get back into shape.  However, the last five pounds were being extraordinarily stubborn.  She could see them in her thighs, and her waist was a little thicker than it used to be.  In all likelihood, no one else had noticed (or _would_ notice), and she knew that.  She noticed, though.  Every time she got undressed.  Every time she caught sight of herself in a mirror, whether at the gym or in their bathroom or bedroom at home.  Sometimes just in a clear window or a particularly shiny surface, she’d see herself, and those intransigent, lingering pounds were all she could see.

Like now.  She stood in a ridiculously posh bathroom at the private beach house where their family was vacationing with Tony and Pepper.  It was so rare that they did this, went on a trip like this, that everyone was incredibly excited.  Tony had flown them down from New York last night to the islands off the coast of southern Florida.  Apparently this particular island Stark Industries actually owned (or just Tony and Pepper owned – it still wasn’t clear to her).  They were going to spend a few days here, enjoying the beach and the ocean, before heading back to the States.  It was Steve’s first time in the Caribbean, and he was vibrating with anticipation as much as James was.  Truth be told, she was, too.  It had been so long since they’d gone anywhere, let alone anywhere this nice.  And she’d been to this region before, but it had been for SHIELD as part of a mission.  That had rather sucked any fun from the event (that, and the pirates and drug runners which she’d chased back into the States with Clint at her side, but that was neither here nor there).  This would be a long weekend of relaxing, cool drinks and warm sand, eating well, the smell of the ocean, the breeze rustling palm trees…  Even with Joseph as little as he was, it would be a _real_ vacation.

Only she couldn’t get over this.  She stared at herself, at her midsection.  The bikini fit just fine, of course, hugging her hips and curving over her chest perfectly.  It _fit_ , and that was the problem.  It was hiding nothing.  Not those extra pounds.  Not the slight hint of stretch marks she saw on the otherwise smooth skin of her tummy.  There was the wound from being shot by the Winter Soldier in Odessa years ago, a scar she’d never been terribly ashamed of, and then there were these, faint lines of darker flesh tones, the residual signs from being pregnant twice, and for some godawful reason, she just couldn’t get rid of them.  She’d tried everything.  Moisturizers.  Creams.  Salves.  Oils.  A few things she’d read on the internet that were ridiculous long shots (painting on eggs whites and rubbing in lemon juice?  Not so effective, as it turned out).  She refused to have surgery, laser or otherwise, for something cosmetic like this; that felt like a step too far, and there’d be no way she could hide it from Steve (like she had been doing for months.  Not the extra pounds and the stretch marks, but the fact she was trying so arduously to get rid of them).  As it was, those marks stayed right where they were, entirely content to line her stomach forever, and she had no choice but to accept them.

This shouldn’t have been so depressing, but it was.  It _really_ was.  And she’d been able to ignore it for the most part, but the minute Tony had pitched the idea of this trip over dinner at the Tower a few weeks ago, she knew she was doomed.  She’d hit the gym harder when she’d had the chance, working herself to the point of sweating what felt like gallons, rebuilding muscle and toning herself, but none of that got any better.  She’d used the jogging stroller they’d gotten as a gift from someone (she couldn’t even remember who) when James had been born for the first time, taking Joseph out running every morning after she dropped James for morning preschool.  She’d worked and worked with apparently nothing to show for it.  And she’d made time to shop for a new bathing suit (she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d worn one), and she’d come back with four of them.  Two bikinis and two one-piece suits as backup.  She looked at her reflection, checking her make-up, her hair, which she’d curled and swept off her shoulders loosely, the rest of her body, smooth skin just ready to tan.  Inevitably, though, her eyes went back to those marks and those extra pounds.

She sighed.  Maybe the bikini wasn’t the way to go.  She grabbed the wrap she’d bought to go with it, a nice, sheer white to the navy blue of the swimsuit, and stuck her arms in, pulling it on.  Well, it would cover her up if she held it closed the whole time.  _Not feasible._ She wondered again why she cared so much.  _No one_ was here.  It was just her sons and Steve, who’d already seen every part of her, who already _knew_ about how her body was now (well, he’d never said a thing, but he had to, right?  Unless he was blind or oblivious.  The former was not possible, but the latter?  Debatable).  And Tony and Pepper, Pepper who was the sweetest woman alive and would never _dream_ of saying anything.  Neither would Tony; underneath all his snarky wit and sometimes careless demeanor, he was really a good man, a decent guy, who wouldn’t tease or shame someone he cared about like that.  There’d probably be wait staff or the like, though; Tony had said this place would cater to their every whim.  Still, they were strangers she’d never see again.  Why did she care so much about what they thought?  It was so stupid and silly and _not her._   She’d never been this insecure about her body before.  _Never._   She’d heard it, that after having children, there was really no going back.  Now she was seeing it, and it was…  It was…

She couldn’t go out like this.

There was a knock on the door.  Natasha scrambled like she was jolted, snatching up a terrycloth towel to cover herself even though she had the cover-up on, and looked at the door with wide eyes.  “Nat?  You ready?  Tony and Pepper are waiting for us.”

She huffed an annoyed sigh, grimacing at her reflection again.  There wasn’t time to do anything now other than change out of the bikini and into one of the one-piece suits.  That felt akin to admitting defeat, and it hurt.  She’d come with the hope that she could pull this off, just like she had _countless_ times in the past.  That she was the same woman she had been five years ago before she’d gotten pregnant with James.  That was really what it was all about, this stupidity.  Like she’d made some subconscious bet with herself that she could do it, look _exactly_ as she’d looked before giving birth to two children, and she’d lost it.  _Failed._   She swallowed through a dry throat.  “Nat, love, are you okay?  You’ve been in there a real long time.”

 _No, really._   She bit back a sharp rejoinder. It wasn’t his fault she was having a post-pregnancy moment of truth.  And this was supposed to be vacation.  Fun and all that.  Was she really going to let a few extra pounds and some hardly noticeable stretch marks put a damper on it?  “I’m fine, Steve.  Just go on ahead.  I’ll, um…”  _You can’t hide in here._   She closed her eyes and shook her head.  “I’ll be down in a minute.”

He hesitated.  “You sure?” he eventually asked.

“Yes.  I’m fine.  I just need a minute to get ready.  Breakfast didn’t sit well.”  The lie sounded decent, but she didn’t want it to be _too_ convincing either.  Otherwise, he’d get concerned and never leave.  “Don’t keep them waiting.”

Steve hesitated more.  “You’re absolutely sure?”  He was always such a great combination of overly stubborn and overly caring.

“Yes,” she returned more tautly.  “Go.  I’ll be right there.”

He didn’t say anything else.  She could hear him outside the door, probably trying to figure it out for another few seconds.  Then James said something in the bedroom, and Steve answered.  He walked away.  Now he was gathering up their beach stuff that she’d laid out, talking to James as he did.  Then there was the sound of Joseph babbling.  She felt a bit bad for leaving Steve to get a small child and a baby plus all their paraphernalia down to the beach by himself but not bad enough to leave the sanctuary of the bathroom this uncertain. 

When it was quiet, Natasha blew out a breath.  “Okay,” she murmured now that she was alone.  She regarded her reflection again, grimacing as she swept her hands over her stomach.  She wasn’t going to wear the bikini.  Quickly she changed into one of the one-piece suits, a red one that hugged her top half nicely.  Her bottom half, though, wasn’t any better.  It was even worse, when she stared at it, those extra pounds on her hips and thighs like a beacon drawing in her eyes. Frustrated, she decided to try the second one-piece.  This was black and very sleek, very form-fitting.  She didn’t know what she’d been thinking when she bought these.  Form-fitting?  Her whole problem _was_ her form, her _lack_ of a form now, and this showed everything even worse than the first one.  Why hadn’t she noticed this when she’d tried them on in the store?  Huffing again in irritation, she peeled it off and went to put on the last bikini.  This one…  “So stupid,” she whispered, though she didn’t know if she was calling herself that for getting so wrapped up in something this dumb or for thinking this would look good on someone who’d breastfed two babies.  Even _that_ wasn’t the same.  The other suits had hid it better.  She stared at herself now, and it was _all_ she could see.  The little hints of sagging.  The tiniest of lines above the top of the bikini all across her bosom.  _More_ faint stretch marks.  She couldn’t pull this off.

For some reason, tears burned her eyes.  “No,” she said, wiping at them.  “No.”  _Go with the first one._   As much as she hadn’t liked it before, it was about the only choice.  The first one with the cover-up.  Quickly she put that back on, feeling more and more flustered as the minutes slipped away.  They were waiting for her, and she was wasting time on _this._   Once she was dressed, she appraised herself a final time, but again, it didn’t look right.  She didn’t look like she used to.  Frowning, she gathered up her sunglasses, slid her feet into her sandals, and gave up.

The beach was absolutely stunning.  Considering the wintry wasteland they’d left behind in New York, this was overwhelmingly wonderful.  The air was warm and sweet.  The water was a clear, pretty blue.  So was the sky, save for the puffy clouds here and there that were just thick enough to provide shade now and again as the gentle winds blew them about.  It was paradise.  She wrapped the sheer fabric tighter about herself as she walked down to join her family.  Pepper had Joseph; he was sitting in the sand with her underneath a canvas gazebo, playing with a bunch of plastic beach toys.  James was out with Steve, splashing in the surf.  She could hear his delighted laughter and squealing as Steve hauled him in and out of the water.  The two of them were like kids on Christmas morning, excited like crazy.  Tony was sitting in a chaise lounge beneath the canopy, too, dressed in the oldest t-shirt he had and orange swim trunks, sunglasses on, beer bottle in his hand.  There was no one else.  Somehow that wasn’t as comforting as it should have been, and she stood in the sand, hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun as she gazed far and wide, like double-checking they were alone would assuage her discomfort.

Tony was the first one who saw her, of course.  “Alright there, Red?”

She dropped her hand and sat in the lounger next to his.  She was careful to keep herself covered by the wrap, adjusting it so that it obscured his view of her belly.  “Fine, Stark.”

Tony wasn’t convinced.  “You look rather piqued.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted.  Maybe that came out a little louder and harsher than she intended because Pepper looked up.  She was gorgeous, strawberry blond hair in a sleek ponytail, dressed for the day in a sleek white swimsuit and a flowing skirt.  _Her_ beach body was perfect, Natasha had to admit.  Of course.  She hadn’t had kids.  That made her even more self-conscious.  “Really.”

“If you want to go back up to the house, it’s alright,” Pepper said earnestly.  She caught Joseph’s little hand before it could deposit a pile of sand in his open mouth.  “Steve said you weren’t feeling well.”

That made her bristle, though she hid it (and everything else) well.  Nobody else needed to know about her insecurities.  And this was _so, so stupid._   No one would care.  Moreover, she was Black Widow.  Why did _she_ care?  “It’s really fine,” she replied again.  “Really.”  Pepper and Tony shared a look that Natasha made a point of ignoring.  She stood, walked over to Joseph, and lifted him up, scrambling to hold the wrap closed and manage the baby and not quite succeeding with the former.  She turned around quickly so they couldn’t see.  “You want to go splash with me, little guy?  Come on.”

The morning went by quickly.  She had to say she was pretty proud of herself for keeping it all under wraps.  Literally.  She sat on the edge of the water with Joe in her lap, letting him play in the smooth sand.  He wasn’t quite crawling yet, and it was nice that he was fairly immobile (since that meant she could be, too).  Pepper took James for a walk up and down the beach so he could collect shells, and Tony and Steve went swimming.  Well, Steve went swimming.  _Really_ swimming.  She’d seen him in the water before plenty of times on missions for SHIELD and with the Avengers but not like this.  Not swimming for the physical activity and enjoyment of it.  It was pretty remarkable how fast he was, how long he could hold his breath, how far out he could go.  Natasha had the feeling he was showing up Tony (even though they’d been good friends for years now, that spirit of competition – okay, _proving_ who was better – always seemed to find its way back to everything they did).  After a while of Steve swimming circles around him, Tony gave up, coming in and grabbing a towel from the chairs under the canopy where she currently sat with Joseph.  “You gonna go in?” he asked as he dried his face.  “Knock your husband down a notch?”

Natasha slid her fingers through Joe’s hair.  He was sound asleep on the lounger against her, his tummy full from his bottle.  “Nah.”

“Aren’t you hot in that thing?”

He was talking about the cover-up, of course, which was still wrapped tightly around her.  “No.  It’s meant for the beach.”

Tony might have wanted to say something further, but he never got the chance.  James was back with Pepper, hauling a whole pail full of shells.  “Mommy!  Mommy!  Look at ’em all!”

Pepper smiled as James proudly went to show his mother his prizes.  “I was thinking about going up to the house and getting lunch started.”  That was Pepper’s way of saying ordered and prepared by the wait staff.  Natasha grimaced inwardly.  “Are you done, Tony?”

Tony set his sunglasses back on his face.  “Done?  I don’t think I ever even got started.  But lunch sounds good.  Tasha?”

How in the world was she going to sneak up to their suite to change before lunch?  “We’ll be along in a minute.”

Neither Tony nor Pepper seemed to think much of that, turning and immediately starting in with each other, Tony going on about how he almost beat Steve in one of their contests out there – something about swimming to shore as fast as possible – and Pepper humoring him with a bunch of “uh-huh”s and “sure”s.  Natasha watched them go, James still babbling about his shells and Joseph still fast asleep against her in the shade, until she finally deemed it safe.  She released the wrap so that it fell open because – _ugh_ – it _was_ hot.  She closed her eyes and at long last let herself relax.

“You okay?”

Steve’s soft question jerked her right out of her daze.  She leaned up from the lounger quickly, covering herself up even quicker.  He stood there, dripping wet.  James was now excitedly bouncing around him with his shells, but Steve wasn’t really paying attention.  His eyes, bright and blue, were on her.  And with the water rolling down him, little glittering beads tracing his ridiculous pecs and ridiculous eight-pack of abs and ridiculous thighs and ridiculous _everything_ , his incredible body that looked not one bit different now than it had when she’d first met him all those years ago…  She was simultaneously turned on beyond belief and outrageously jealous.  “Nat?”

“Fine.”  She stood, careful not to jostle Joe too much, and gathered up a couple of the towels.  She tossed one at him, keeping the cover-up tight around her as she did.  “They went up to lunch.  You want to get our stuff?”

He just stared at her, not even bothering to unfold the towel, and she could practically feel his suspicion like it was a tangible force.  “Okay, something’s wrong here.  You’re not fooling me.  And it’s not breakfast or anything else.  You’re upset about something.”

“It’s nothing.”

“I just told you you’re not fooling me.  What’s the matter?”

“It’s _nothing_.”

“Nat.”

What was the point of hiding or lying?  She sighed, feeling so _awful_ for reasons she couldn’t even understand, and let the wrap come open to expose her in the bikini.  Her thighs and hips and midriff.  He stared at her as she stood there, his brow furrowing.  “Okay.  Am I… supposed to be seeing something here?”

He was blind.  Both blind _and_ oblivious.  Now she knew that beyond a doubt.  How in the world could he so… so…  “Don’t tell me you can’t see it.”

He paled a little, though not from understanding.  From a _lack_ of it.  “Uh…  Alright, pretend that you and I don’t know each other and haven’t procreated together twice–”

“Dad!  Dad!  Daddy!” James said, jumping up and down to get Steve’s attention.

Steve snatched him up and tossed him over his shoulder just to get him to quit it.  James squealed and laughed as Steve gripped him by the ankles and let him dangle.  “–and explain it to me really clearly because I’m just not getting it.  You look like you always look.”  That was the _wrong_ thing to say, and he didn’t even know it.  Natasha sighed sharply, trying to get control over herself ( _this is so stupid!  I am not going to cry about this!_ ) and closed the wrap around her again, hiding her tummy and everything else.  “Whoa, wait!  Nat, I’m sorry!  I just don’t see what the problem is.  Honest.  What’s the matter, love?  I’m slow, I guess.  Please tell me.”

Lord, she was embarrassed.  And ashamed.  And she felt _ridiculous._   “I look like I always look _now._   I don’t look like I used to.”

If the puzzled wrinkles in his forehead got any deeper, they’d rival the Grand Canyon.  “Like you used to?”

“Before–” She cut herself off, gesticulating at James as Steve set him back down in the sand and Joseph where he still slumbered in the warm air.  “Before this.  Before _them._   Before having two kids in four years.”

Steve shook his head.  “I still don’t see what’s wrong.”  She turned away sharply, so annoyed with him, and went to collect Joe’s diaper bag and blanket.  “Wait, Nat.”  He came closer, his wet hands gripping her shoulders and turning her around.  “I don’t see anything wrong,” he said again intently.

“Because you’re used to it,” she remarked grouchily.

“No, because there’s nothing wrong to see,” he corrected.  He took the wrap and gently pulled it open.  His eyes fell down from her face, roaming lower on her body, analytical.  He swept his fingertips across the flat, muscular surface of her belly, right over her navel.  “You mean these little line things here?”

She almost rolled her eyes.  “Stretch marks.”

“Battle scars, really.  And you can hardly see ’em.  Wouldn’t even know they were there if you hadn’t told me.”

She wasn’t going to be placated by him.  “Steve–”

His fingers ghosted over the actual scar on right above her hip from her time in the field as a SHIELD agent.  “Bye-bye, bikinis, right?  Heard that one before.”  She squirmed, wanting to cover up and get away.  He didn’t let her.  “Remember what I said?”

She rolled her eyes at him.  “You’re not brushing this one off.”

He came closer, way into her personal space, towering over her.  “What did I say, Nat?”  She didn’t want to play into this, even though she couldn’t help her little grin.  Nor could she help looking up into his eyes.  They were deep and dark.  “I said,” he said slowly, lowly, “I bet you look terrible in them now.  With sarcasm.”

“You are capable of it,” she conceded.  “On occasion.”

“I know I am.”  He let his look turn hungry.  It was okay.  Joseph was sleeping.  James was busy with his shells on the other side of the canopy.  They were alone on a private beach.  Steve had such a predatory, possessive look to him, something he rarely had, and – _my, God_ – that went straight to her core.  It went there hard, until her heart was beating faster and she was breathing deeper and it took all of her willpower _not_ to grab those ridiculous Hawaiian patterned swim trunks he was wearing and rip them off.  His hands curled into the sheer fabric of the wrap and slowly pulled it away, revealing all of her, until she was standing there in nothing but her bikini.  He tossed it into the sand uncaringly, and his hands came back to her hips, the callused pads of this thumbs tracing over her flat stomach.  “Battle scars,” he repeated, his voice low.  “You’re _stunning_.”

The inclination to argue, to be uncomfortable with the attention and the adoration, the way he _still_ worshipped her even after all this…  It died. “I am?” she asked smugly.

“You are,” he said without a touch of doubt in his tone and with that male, animalistic purr still clinging to his tone.  “Now more than ever.”  She felt it all, all this ridiculous, foolish, stupid _insecurity,_ melt away in the heat of his gaze.  He dipped his head down a little, crooking a finger under her chin to lift her face to his.  His lips traced lightly over hers.  The faintest of touches.  “Need me to show you?  ’Cause I’d be more than happy to.  Later.”

 _God._   _When_ later?  The way he was looking at her…  It was positively _evil._   Ferocious.  Hot, and she was already sweating up a storm out here in the humid tropical air.  She could only stare at him, and for the first time in a while, she felt _desired_.

“Daddy?”  James suddenly came up, and Steve took a respectful step back.  The extra few inches between them felt infinite.  “Daddy, I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” Steve said.  Now he waggled his eyebrows, more as a joke than anything else, and Natasha burst out laughing, pushing him away.  He beamed, so proud of himself.  Then he lifted James up, positioning the little boy’s legs so that he could ride on his shoulders.  The pail of shells rattled as he got settled, and Steve took his ankles to keep him steady.  Natasha watched a moment more before shouldering their bags and going to scoop Joseph up.  She pressed him and his little blanket protectively into her shoulder, covering his head.  Steve watched her, his eyes glittering in the sun, and he tugged James’ sand-covered left foot.  “Hey, James, isn’t your mommy beautiful?  Tell her she’s beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful, Mommy,” James obediently declared.

Steve grinned.  “See?  And you know how I feel about tellin’ the truth.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Natasha said as they started walking back to the beach house.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”  Natasha shook her head, feeling bold again, bold and confident and airy.  She nudged her hip thankfully against him, to which he knowingly nudged back.  And she smiled all the way up to the house, never even noticing that she’d left her cover-up behind and half buried in the sand.


	34. The Lion's Share

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This one is kind of a change of pace. A lot of people asked for a few chapters with the boys being older, and this one starts to explore some themes we'll see again later on in the story. Enjoy, everyone, and thanks so much for reading!

James knew he was in trouble.

Serious trouble.

He was a good kid, and he knew that.  A stellar student.  A phenomenal athlete.  He was only thirteen, and already he was turning heads with just how much he excelled at _everything_.  Part of that, he knew as well, was due to the super soldier serum he’d inherited from his father.  That was as much of a curse as it was a blessing in some ways.  A blessing because it made everything _easier_ and not just the physical stuff.  He was smart and incredibly healthy.  He’d never been sick a day in his life.  Things came simply and naturally to him, and he rarely had to work hard to do better than everyone else.

But it was a curse, too, for a bunch of reasons, not the least of which being there was a constant expectation of perfection, maybe not so much from his parents (although Mom was a bit more of a stickler about it than Dad) but certainly from himself.  _And_ he perceived that expectation from everyone else, too.  He was Captain America’s son.  _Captain America’s son._   That meant he had to be better, be worthy of it.  Again, that pressure came from others rather than his parents (they were always so careful _not_ to project some image of Captain America’s legacy on him, so much so that their lack of emphasis was almost more of a reminder of the existence of it all than being flat-out told that he needed to live up to his father’s image).  It fairly readily came from himself, as well.  He was Steve Rogers’ son.  That meant he couldn’t make mistakes.

Well, he’d made a pretty big one today.  And he was so angry and ashamed that just sitting there, listening to the Headmaster go on, was excruciating.  “West Exeter has a zero tolerance policy for fighting.”  That was about the hundredth the old man had said that in the last ten minutes, it seemed.  James felt his condescending, disgusted stare on him.  It was unwavering.  “It’s not acceptable, not under _any_ circumstances.  That should be very clear.  Students should not have to be told, let alone _reminded._ ”  The Headmaster sat behind his expensive desk in his expensive office.  Everything about this place was like this.  Expensive and prestigious and… _snobby._   He and Joseph had been attending West Exeter for about six months, ever since…  Well, he wasn’t going to make things worse by thinking about what had almost happened.  Needless to say, Mom and Dad had wanted the both of them some place safer (James couldn’t prove it, but he was pretty sure half the teachers here and a great deal of the janitorial and support staff were undercover SHIELD agents, and that wasn’t counting actual school security), and it was becoming obvious with the rigorous academics here that their old school hadn’t quite been capable of dealing with two serum-enhanced minds.  He generally liked West Exeter, but it was weird because Dad (who’d been the biggest proponent for them continuing to attend school after the incident rather than having private tutors) seemed patently uncomfortable every time he walked through its old and noble halls.  James knew why.  Dad always seemed to have this thing with fancy places like this, probably due to having grown up poor and small.  He’d hate having to sit in here, flanked by degrees and finery and centuries of academic glory.  It was probably a good thing he was out of town.

 _Yeah,_ James thought snidely of his own nonsense.  It was good Dad wasn’t here because he’d be _uncomfortable_.  Not because he’d have to listen to the Headmaster rip his son a new one for fighting.  No, that wonderful honor was falling to Mom, who was stony and cold and looking every bit like Black Widow.  “I understand your concern,” Mom said.

“Do you?” the Headmaster challenged.  Yeah, James _generally_ liked West Exeter.  The Headmaster and some of the deans and teachers were jerks, though.  That probably explained why they had jerks for sons.  “I recognize that perhaps physical violence may be deemed… _acceptable_ given your lifestyle, but this is hardly the place for a schoolyard _brawl._   You must understand that fighting breeds both an environment of recklessness and vulgarity, in addition to posing a danger to other students and staff.  Particularly in James’ case, it _cannot_ be allowed to occur.”

Mom sat still, her legs crossed, her arms folded in her lap.  To anyone else, she seemed calm, submissive even, but James could see the tension in her slight form and the warning in her eyes.  She wasn’t rising to the bait, to the suggestion that their family, as unique as it was, was too low class or whatever else to fit in here.  “As I said, I understand your concerns.”

The Headmaster wasn’t through lecturing, of course, particularly when he failed to get a rise out of her.  At any other time, James might have smiled.  No one beat his mother in an argument like this.  _No one._ “Then you see why no exceptions can be made.  Our stance on discipline is very strict.  It must be so to protect our pupils and to ensure the integrity and honor of our reputation.  Our legacy, Mrs. Rogers.”

Mom’s eye twitched.  “Of course.”

“It makes no difference who the child is, if he’s Captain America’s son–”  James gritted his teeth and stared harder at his bruised knuckles where they were folded in his lap.  The marks were already fading.  “–or the President’s son or _any_ of our sons.  He _cannot_ be allowed to strike another student on school grounds.”

“I agree.”

“Then surely you can agree that suspension is an appropriate response.”  James tightened every muscle in his body to keep himself from flinching.

If Mom was upset, she was hiding it well.  She always did.  “I highly doubt my son would hit another boy without provocation or at the very least a good reason.”  He wasn’t sure, but he thought that might have been one of _those_ kinds of subtle things Mom said.  Something said to the Headmaster but meant for him.  But he couldn’t tell if she wanted him to explain himself or defend himself or just accept that this was happening.

The Headmaster didn’t wait for him to speak, at any rate.  “His reasons are irrelevant.  The boys he assaulted could have been seriously hurt.  One was particularly upset.”  _And that one’s the son of one of the biggest contributors to the school’s endowment, but let’s not mention that.  And a bully._   Mom probably knew that, anyway.  She always seemed to know everything.  “I’ve already spoken to the disciplinary committee, and this is its verdict, one with which I whole-heartedly agree.  James will be suspended for three days.  He may return to school on Friday, with the expectation that all of his missed assignments and classwork will be completed so that he doesn’t fall behind his classmates.”

“I understand,” Mom replied with that tone in her voice James heard her use with other SHIELD agents and the Avengers when they were on missions.  No-nonsense.  A little threatening.  “I’ll see to it that he stays on top of it.”

“And bear in mind that with any further transgressions, the punishment becomes more severe, including being expelled from West Exeter.”

James did flinch that time.  Mom stood, and now she did nothing to hide her glare for the Headmaster for being so highhanded and unnecessarily harsh.  “It will not happen again.  Rest assured.”

“See that it doesn’t.”

“Come on, James.”  That was that.  James heaved a little sigh, not sure if he should be relieved or upset, and stood.  He followed Mom out, his stomach roiling and his heart pounding and his mind twisting with so many tangled up thoughts and emotions.  And that only got worse when they went out into the hall beyond the Headmaster’s office where Joseph was sitting on the leather bench, waiting for them.  Joseph who looked like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to scream and cry.  “Let’s go,” Mom declared tersely.  _“Now.”_

Silently the two boys followed their mother out of the administrative building.  James ground his teeth together once more, not wanting to look at Joseph beside him but so _angry_ all the sudden that walking with his eyes down and pretending that this was okay was utterly repulsive.  Joseph seemed about as content with this as James felt.  Joe was nine, nine and so smart and cunning.  He was a little guy, skinny and even a little scrawny, all long limbs and small stature.  It didn’t seem like he’d ever be as big or strong as James was.  And the older he got, the more they all realized he hadn’t gotten the lion’s share of Dad’s genes.  Not that that was bad.  But he wasn’t as fast or quite as strong or resilient.  He’d even had a sick day here and there.  The two of them were as different as could be in some ways.  People looked at James and saw Steve Rogers.  People looked at Joseph and saw… someone else.  Their mother at least.  Even though that was just fine, there seemed to be something off or unfair about it (at least, again, in the minds of _everyone_ else.  Mom and Dad _never_ made either of them feel different from the other, which made it even more obvious).  He’d been told over and over again, though, by Dad and Uncle Buck and Uncle Clint and Uncle Tony…  _You’re his big brother.  You have to take care of him._

The walk of shame continued until they reached the car.  Joe immediately took the front seat, and James didn’t feel like arguing about it this time.  He slid into the back, tossing his backpack angrily (and probably a little too hard – for a second he worried he dented the door.  Stupid super strength).  Mom noticed, of course, giving him a reprimanding look in the rearview mirror of the car as she strapped herself into the driver’s seat.  She didn’t turn the car on, though.  James could hardly stand to sit there, torn between so much guilt and so much ire over the whole mess.  He stared darkly at the back of Joseph’s seat.  “I want to know what happened,” Mom eventually said.  She turned with a creak of her long, leather coat.  When the afternoon sun hit her face, the little wrinkles around her eyes and mouth that she tried so hard to hide were visible, as well the faint streaks of silver in her hair.  It always bothered James so much to see those details.  Little, but they meant a lot.  Dad didn’t have wrinkles or gray in his hair or anything like that.  Mom and Dad never talked about it, but James noticed.  It was another reminder of just how different the serum made them.

Mom looked _extremely cross._   “James Steven,” she began, “tell me what happened right now.”

It was Joe who answered.  “It wasn’t his fault, Mom, really, and I–”

“Shut up, Joey!” James snapped, smacking the back of the seat enough to jolt his little brother.

Joseph’s eyes went sharp with ire.  “No!  It’s not fair, Jamie!  No one’s being fair!”

“So you were there for the fight,” Mom surmised, turning to Joseph.  Her expression was hard, focused, and unyielding.  “I want the truth from you, then.  What happened?”

The car went quiet.  James glared daggers at Joseph’s seat.  _Don’t you dare say anything._ If Joseph came clean about what had really happened, then what was the point?  Joe was extremely perceptive, though, and better at lying (and more willing to do it) than James was, so he wisely kept his trap shut.  The silence was heavy, awful, and uncomfortable.  Mom sighed after a minute or so of it, realizing the two of them (who argued about pretty much everything) were steadfast about this.  “James, you know better.  You could have put those boys in the hospital without even trying, _all of them_ , and you know it.”

And, again, his dumb little brother almost blew it.  “Mom, you didn’t see what Connor was doing.  He was picking on the other kids and saying all sorts of bad stuff about–”

 _“It doesn’t matter,”_ Mom said firmly.  “You should know better!  If you’d seriously hurt him or anyone else, getting suspended would have been _the least_ of your problems!”  She hissed something in Russian; Mom only ever spoke Russian when she was _really_ upset, and the instant she did, James felt even worse (if that was possible).  His eyes burned with indignant tears.  “Suspended.  How could you be so reckless?  How could you do something so stupid?  All the times we’ve told you _not_ to _ever_ let it slip what you can do.  Not just for your safety, but for _theirs_ , too.  You can’t do things like this!  You know how dangerous it is!”  Of course he did.  After last year’s ordeal, he knew all too well.  James bit his lip hard, wiping irately at his cheeks.  She caught sight of it, though, and she took a few deep breaths to calm herself.  “Now I was in the middle of extremely important conference call when this happened.  I had to come all the way down here, leaving a disaster at HQ and making some _very important_ people pretty angry, so I think I deserve to know what caused all of this.  What happened?  One of you had better tell me.”

James could practically feel Joseph vibrating with the need to do just that.  For being the sneakier one, the better fibber and the better actor, he was letting all of his tells run wild, right in front of the _master_ of reading people.  Moms were gifted with somehow knowing the truth when it came to their kids, and their mother was a world famous spy to boot, which made it all even worse.  There was no hiding anything from her or lying to her.  Luckily (he guessed), she was flustered, angry, and upset enough to wash her hands of it right now.  “Fine.  If you won’t talk to me, you can talk to your father when he gets home tonight.”

James blanched.  Throughout all of this, he’d kept consoling himself that he wouldn’t have to deal with Dad until Wednesday when he was due back from the latest operation he was running for SHIELD.  “Dad’s coming home _tonight_?” Joseph asked in a soft squeak.  All the color went right out of his naturally pale face.

“The mission had to be postponed.  He’s flying back to the States,” Mom answered.  She turned the car on.  “I’m too angry to talk about this right now, and I need to get back to fix the situation I left behind before it turns into an international crisis.  But _don’t think_ this is over.”  That warning was meant for James, and he shrunk down in his seat, subconsciously trying to make himself smaller.  “Your father and I will decide when it’s over.”

They drove home in complete silence.  James let his head rest against the cool glass of the car window, bravely holding back his tears (well, he thought it was brave, but maybe not so much).  Joseph kept looking back at him, clearly teetering on the edge of blurting out _everything._  He didn’t, though.  Eventually they were driving along the familiar roads of their neighborhood and pulling into their driveway.  There was a car already parked at their house, and for one terrified moment, James thought it was Dad, back already.  Dad who would be _disappointed_ in him.  But it wasn’t.  It was Uncle Bucky, leaning against the door of his old, familiar, black sports car.  He hadn’t let himself in, even though he had a key.  He had a bunch of folders tucked under his arm.  “Fury wanted me to bring you these,” he announced as Mom got out of the car.  “He said you need to get back online right now or there will be, quote unquote, hell to pay.”  He took one look at the silent, troubled boys and Mom’s angry expression, and his own easy smile slid into a frown.  “What happened?”

“James picked a fight at school,” Mom explained tautly.  That made James angry again because even though he’d agreed (no, _demanded_ they do this this way), it wasn’t true.  He clenched his hands into fists at his side and gave Joseph a warning glower.  Mom turned to them, seething anew.  “You two, inside.  Joseph, homework.  James, you’re in your room until Dad’s home.”  James stared defiantly at her a moment, wishing so badly that he could argue, but he was in enough trouble as it was.  Mom’s eyes flashed in warning.  “Go.”

He went.  He went with his head hung low and his eyes stinging anew and feeling like such a _failure._   It wasn’t fair.  None of it.  He hadn’t…  He’d only…  And he was trying to…

Furious, he slammed his door.  Then he winced at the bang and feared for a second he’d knocked it off his hinges.  Stupid, _stupid_ super strength.  That soured him further, and he all but threw himself on his bed and fought not to cry.  He was Captain America’s son.  He should have known better.  _What was I supposed to do?_   _Let that jerk hurt him?_   _Let him say…_   He didn’t want to think about it.

It didn’t feel like it, but he must have laid there on his bed a long time, because the sun was setting when he heard a knock at his window.  He sighed, rolling over and spotting Joe out there.  They’d figured this out a long time ago, that they could slip out their bedroom windows and walk on the roof of the porch’s awning to get to each other.  James was pretty sure Mom and Dad knew about it, but if they did, they’d never said anything.  “Go ’way, Joey.”

“Lemme in, Jamie.”

He was sorely tempted to lay there and ignore that, and he did for a moment.  But then that need to protect Joe got him up and out of bed and grousing his way over to the window.  He pulled it open, and Joseph slipped inside.  His hair was a total mess, and his eyes looked wet.  It reminded him too much of how he’d looked when HYDRA had kidnapped them, and he _wasn’t going to make things worse_ by thinking about that!

Joseph was significantly more certain right now than he had been then.  “I’m telling Dad the truth when he gets here,” he boldly declared.

“No, you’re not.”

“Jamie, come on!  This isn’t right!”  James was more than a full head taller than Joseph and quite a bit broader, but in moments like this, his little brother was huge with fire and stubbornness and an ardent belief that he needed to right the world’s injustices.  That had been what had gotten them in this situation in the first place.  Little soft-spoken Joey Rogers.  Nobody expected _that_ of him.  And James didn’t want him to get in trouble because of it.  “I don’t care what you think.  I went along with your stupid plan, but it’s stupid.  And it’s not right.  I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

James gave an incredulous grunt.  “Sure, you don’t.”

Joseph’s eyes glowed with anger and determination.  “I _don’t_.  I coulda taken Connor, taken all of ’em if I had to.  Stop protecting me all the time!  You don’t have to!  I can fight!”

That was debatable and somewhat irrelevant.  Protecting Joseph was part of who he was.  Throughout every tough moment in their lives…  When they’d been taken before Mom and Dad had come to save them.  When Joe had been terrified and it had been up to James to be brave.  This was what he did, what he had to do, because he was stronger and bigger.  He was Captain America’s son and he had the lion’s share of their dad’s genes.  So he had to protect Joe because he _could_ and someone had to.  “Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have to fight.  Don’t you get it?  You’re–”

Joseph scowled.  “I’m _what_?”

James shook his head, deciding not to go there.  “You’re not getting into trouble for this.  Not if I can help it.”

“By _lying_?  You _never_ lie.  You’re perfect James Rogers.  You don’t lie.”

“I can when it’s the right thing to do.”

“It’s not right!  You got suspended, and it’s my fault!”

“Well, I did hit him.”

“Doesn’t matter!” Joseph hissed.  “Nothing bad would’ve happened if you just let me finish it!”

“Are you crazy?  He woulda cleaned your clocks.”

“Why’d you take the fall, huh?  Why do you always got something to prove?”

“Why do _you_?  That kid was twice your size, Joey!”

Joseph flushed in anger.  “I don’t care!  You shouldn’t have told me to run!  I can–”

“You know, your secret escape route isn’t so secret when you leave the window wide open and the entire neighborhood can hear you arguing.”  James looked over Joseph’s narrow shoulder to see Uncle Bucky crouched outside his window.  He was smiling, his eyes twinkling, his hair pulled back from his face in a messy bun.  “Mind if I come in?  Feel kinda dumb out here.”

James nodded in shock, and Uncle Bucky maneuvered his large frame through the open window.  He landed lightly, appraising the two boys.  A moment of quiet crawled by, and James immediately felt nervous.  Bucky was like Dad (and Mom, for that matter); he could hear _everything_.  “So I came to Joe’s room to press him about what landed you guys in trouble.”

“Mom sent you?” Joey accused, not making any effort to hide his displeasure.

“Nope.  I just know the sight of two boys who’ve gotten themselves in over their heads when I see it.”  James sighed inwardly, fighting to hold onto his temper.  This was a favorite thing of Uncle Bucky’s.  He had an endless supply of stories about Dad when they’d been kids together in Brooklyn, and they were always meaningful, always anecdotal, always apropos for a given situation.  Normally James liked them, and he got the impression Uncle Bucky’s memories of his childhood with Dad were something he cherished, something hard won.  Right now he didn’t think he could stand hearing it.  Not another reminder of inheriting Dad’s legacy and _failing_ at upholding it.  “So what happened.”

It wasn’t a question, but afforded the chance to answer, Joe went all in.  James was too defeated to stop him.  “Connor Garrett and his friends…  They’re older than Jamie, even, and bigger and they’re a bunch of jerks.  Their dads all went to our school and donate lots of money now so they think they can do whatever they want and get away with it and it’s not right.  And they pick on a lot of the younger kids.  Everyone’s afraid of ’em.  I don’t like watching it, and today they went after Sammy, and I just couldn’t keep quiet about it.  It’s not right.  It’s not fair.  I went right over there…”  He was actually getting proud of himself as he talked, flushed and excited, and Uncle Bucky had this look in his eyes that James could only describe as _knowing_.  “…I went right over there and told him to lay off, and he just laughed at me and – and made fun of me and…”  Now Joseph trailed off and looked more ashamed than anything.

“And what?”

“He called me a runt.  And he said Dad couldn’t be my dad.  And that Mom–”

“Joey,” James interrupted, “don’t say it.”

Joseph was only nine, but he knew that what a hurtful thing it was to be told that your mother must have cheated on your father, because how _else_ could you explain an _aberration_ like him?  Maybe he didn’t get all of what was implied in that cruel insult.  It didn’t matter.  It was terrible, and Joe’s eyes welled with tears now, tears he’d been holding back all afternoon, and Uncle Bucky looked like he wanted to hurt something.  “What happened?” he prodded gently.

“I punched him right in the face, Uncle Bucky,” Joseph softly admitted.

James felt better for some reason, having the truth completely out in the open.  Joseph had technically thrown the first punch.  He’d technically started the fight.  Technically he should have been the one to get in trouble.  But…  Uncle Bucky sighed, looking at James.  “And you threw yourself in there and beat the crap out of them.”

James nodded.  “Couldn’t let Joe get hurt.”

“And you lied about it.”

“Couldn’t let him get in trouble.”

They were quiet again, the two boys and their uncle.  Bucky sighed.  He sat on James’ beg and tugged Joseph a little closer with his metal hand.  Joseph went, heaving a little sob into his uncle’s shoulder.  Bucky’s other hand found its way around James, and James went willingly even though he thought he was getting too old for hugs and _definitely_ for crying.  Plus he’d done enough of the latter when they’d been taken last year that he’d had his fill.  Still, he did both, and he let Uncle Bucky hold him just like Uncle Bucky always used to.  All of his uncles gave good hugs, and Dad did, too, but Uncle Bucky’s were… special somehow.  “This kid and his gang of jerks…  They didn’t get caught for saying that nasty stuff, did they.”  Joseph just shook his head, sniffling.  “Figures.”

“It’s not fair, Uncle Bucky!  They’re bullies, and it’s not fair that they get to hurt other people and get away with it!” Joseph railed.  “I don’t – I don’t care what they say about me.  But it’s not right that they hurt kids and no one stops them.”

“You had to stand up to them, huh,” Uncle Bucky said, rubbing his hand down Joseph’s back.  Joseph nodded.  “You know what, kiddo?  You’re more your dad’s son than they’ll ever know.”  Joe gasped another little cry, rubbing his eyes.  “C’mere.  It’s alright.”  He just cried for a little bit, letting out all his pent-up feelings, and seeing him upset always made James feel bad, so he kept crying, too.  “Both of you are.  You’re Captain America’s sons.  Both of you.”  Uncle Bucky didn’t say anything else, nothing about them being better than this.  He just let them have it.  And when they were quieting, he pulled them back and smiled.  “You feel better?”

Joseph just nodded, cheeks wet and glistening.  He wiped them.  “It’s my fault.”

Bucky grimaced and tipped his head.  “Nah.  You were doing the right thing, trying to keep the other kids safe.  That’s what counts.  But no throwing punches, okay?  One day you’re gonna be as strong as your mom and dad are, Joe.  I know it.  We all know it.  You don’t need to prove it.”

Joe sniffled again.  “Okay, Uncle Buck.”

“Okay.  You go on downstairs.  I think your mom’s done with her work.  And I gotta go get your dad from the airport.  When he gets home, both of you should tell him the truth.  Together.”

Joe hesitated, sharing a look with James.  “Won’t he be mad?”

“Maybe,” Bucky conceded, “but I doubt it.  And even if he is, that’s no reason not to tell him.  Right?  He loves you guys so much.  You have no idea what it was like when you were…  Well.”  He smiled, like he was thinking better of saying something, but James knew what it was.  _When HYDRA had us._   “Go downstairs, buddy.  Lemme talk to James real quick.”

For another moment, Joseph lingered.  Then he did as Uncle Bucky said and left the room in search of their mother.

“James.”  James turned to his uncle.  Bucky rose to his full height, both hands on his shoulders.  “I know it’s been hard for you, with everything that happened last year…  It hurts sometimes, even now.  Scars.”

James glanced at his uncle’s metal arm.  “It’s alright, Uncle Buck.”

“But you don’t have to prove anything, either.  Not to anyone that matters.”  He gave a firm smile.  “Most of all not to yourself.”  James flushed.  “You know what you’re worth.”

“I know.”

Bucky nodded.  “And I know what it’s like trying to keep your brother safe.  If I had a dollar for every fight I pulled your dad out of, every time I had to bail his butt out from startin’ somethin’ he couldn’t finish with every bully he could find…  Well, we wouldn’t have been living in a fourth floor walk-up, back in the day.”  He tugged James closer.  “And I don’t condone fightin’ other kids, so don’t go thinkin’ it was okay.  But… you did good.”

“ _Well_ , Uncle Buck,” James corrected.

Bucky chuckled.  “Well.”  They stood still a moment more, and then James felt him let go.  “I’m gonna go now.  Your mom’s feeling pretty bad, I think, so be extra nice to her, huh?”

“’Course.”  He nodded.  Then he sniffled.  “Don’t know if I can…  I can’t tell him.”

“Sure, you can.”  Bucky ruffled his hair and offered up a confident smile.  “You’re a good kid, James Rogers.”

Uncle Bucky left to get Dad.  Mom did come up, and though she was still angry, it was obvious time (or finding out the truth – maybe Bucky had told her or maybe Joe had cracked and spilled the beans again) had tempered her disappointment in him.  They didn’t talk so much as she hugged him and held him close and told him it was alright, that as long as he learned he couldn’t do what he’d done, not like he’d done it, that was what was important.  And as long as he was okay.  That was _most_ important.  She kissed him and told him no matter what, she was proud of him.

An hour or so later, Uncle Bucky dropped Dad off.  He came home tired, frustrated, but managing a smile for his family, and James worried again about what he’d think.  If he’d be disappointed in his sons but him especially.  The firstborn.  The one who looked most like him, the one everyone thought was meant to carry on everything he symbolized.

But this was his father, and his father might be Captain America, but everything that made him that wasn’t from the serum.  The serum _made_ them different, but it wasn’t what made them who they were.  Dad knew what it was like to stand up to bullies and to take hits so that the people he loved were safe, so he’d understand.  Everything he’d done in his life and continued to do…  Those lessons were what had taught his sons to do it, too.  The lion’s share of his genes didn’t really matter.  He and Joey were both his kids, both Captain America’s sons.  And they didn’t have to prove that.

So the family sat down to dinner.  Mom stayed quiet, eyes moving between her boys in that way that was something more than a gentle reminder but not so much as a push.  James glanced at Joseph, and Joseph glanced back.  Then they both looked at their father.  “Dad,” Joe started slowly.

James cleared his throat.  “We have to tell you something…”


	35. Scream for Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Happy early Halloween! Have some sexy fluff. :-) There's another Halloween chapter coming up with the kids (not quite as suggestive as this one, of course). Enjoy, my awesome readers, and thanks for all your comments and support! This little story I started six months or so ago has exploded into being one of my most popular, and I can't express my gratitude enough!

Natasha had never been a big lover of Halloween.  In her opinion, there were plenty of horrors already in this world.  There didn’t seem to be a good reason to make up more.  Furthermore, she’d been terrified plenty of times before (not that she’d showed it or would ever admit to it).  Her life as an assassin, SHIELD agent, and Avenger had brought her up against some real monsters, real madmen, and real demons.  People in costumes (even really well-done ones with perfect make-up in a perfect atmosphere) really didn’t compare.  And she was hardened.  True experience tended to do that in a way fake thrills and superficial scares never could.  Of course, there was the added fact that she’d never had a chance in her youth to understand Halloween, let alone enjoy it.  Being a western tradition, embracing Halloween was generally frowned upon in Russia, though the younger generations sometimes celebrated it.  Moreover, as a young girl the Red Room, holidays had been forbidden and forgotten.  It wasn’t until she’d joined SHIELD and come to the United States that she’d been exposed to Halloween as it was in America, with trick or treating and bags of candy and ghostly decorations festooning houses all over the nation.  Even then, she hadn’t cared much for it (or even thought much about it).

Steve, however, was far more interested in Halloween.  When he’d grown up, it had been a very different holiday than it was now.  During the Depression, things had been lean and rationed, and the night had typically centered on tricks (pranks or even vandalism, as he told it) rather than treats.  People dressed up, sometimes lavishly (those who could afford it, anyway), but he and Bucky had always been poor so their costumes had relied more on creativity and imagination than actual substance.  Even more than that, though, was the fact Halloween could often be cold and rainy, so it was a rare occasion that he could participate with the other kids.  Walking in damp, chilly air hadn’t been wise given how easily he’d gotten sick back then.  On top of that, his mother had never thought the evening safe, particularly not for her son who attracted bullies like nothing else, so Steve (and Bucky, much to Steve’s objection) often spent the evening in doors, trying to scare each other with stories and radio shows and drawings.  She could imagine that: little Steve and Bucky, huddled under a threadbare blanket in Steve’s room with a book full of ghouls and goblins open on his bed, reading by lantern light just for the atmosphere of it, trying to scare each other’s socks off.  It was a cute picture, she had to admit, even if Steve seemed a little resentful of the fact that he’d spent most of the Halloween evenings of his youth hidden away.

Therefore it wasn’t surprising that he was curious.  Halloween had been one of the many things that he found the same in principle but radically different in practice after waking up in the future.  With everything that had gone on with the Avengers and SHIELD in the last couple of years, he really hadn’t had the opportunity to see what it was now beyond what he’d heard.  This year, though, things were quiet and had been for weeks.  They were just a couple weeks shy of their first anniversary.  Truth be told, Natasha hadn’t exactly been feeling great recently.  She couldn’t figure out why exactly, but she’d been queasy off and on, tired, and irritable (there was no other word to describe it, except perhaps “crabby”, but she’d never label herself something that childish and awful).  So when Steve had suggested going out to her earlier that afternoon, she hadn’t been interested.  He wanted to check out some sort of haunted hayride thing out in the country that he’d seen in the paper.  Frankly, the fact that _that_ was what he wanted to do didn’t increase her desire to go.

“C’mon,” he cajoled, “it’ll be fun.”

“Standing in line for hours so that a bunch of idiots can try to scare you out in the middle of a cold cornfield?  Sounds awesome, but no.”  She curled up tighter on their couch, pulling the throw around her more.  It was cold outside and she wanted to stay right there in her pajamas with a mug of hot chocolate and a book.  “You go.  Take Sam with you.”

His face pulled into an expression that only reminded her of a whipped puppy.  A golden retriever puppy.  Lord, it was pathetic.  “C’mon,” he whined again.  “I want to go with you.”  It was hard not to melt immediately when he said it like that, when he _looked_ at her like he was.  Steve had gotten under her skin almost immediately after they’d met, but dating and falling in love had driven him like a stake into her heart, and marriage had put the nail in the coffin.  She smiled to herself at the seasonally appropriate metaphors.  “Halloween only comes once a year.  And I’ve never done anything like this.  I want to see what it’s like.”

“People will recognize us.”

“No, they won’t.  It’ll be dark.  Besides, so what if they do?  We’re not a secret anymore.”

He was probably right.  Her eyes went to the silver glint on his left ring finger.  Sometimes she was still surprised by it and its mate on her own hand.  Thwarted from her objection, she argued, “It’s not going to be scary.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.  I don’t get scared.”

He smirked.  “Maybe you will.”

“Not likely.”  She couldn’t help but sound a little smug.

“Maybe…”  He was suddenly crouching beside the sofa, practically crawling around the coffee table to loom over her on the couch.  She tried to ignore him.  Tried and failed.  “Maybe you’ll be _terrified._   Maybe you’ll need to cling to me because you’ll be so scared.  Face buried in my coat, holding me close…”  He pressed her down, smiling devilishly, and then his lips ghosted over hers.   “Maybe you’ll even…”  His mouth drifted its way over her cheek to her ear.  “…scream for me.”

Now she pushed him away.  “Not on your life, Rogers.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Seriously?”

“Uh-huh.”

Interested now, she narrowed her eyes and sat up.  “What’s the wager?”

He spent a moment thinking.  “You get scared, and you do all the cooking and laundry for the week.”

“How domestic.  And I already do all the cooking.”

“And you let me do whatever I want to you tonight.”

 _That_ made this infinitely more enticing.  Despite not feeling so hot, she felt… _hot_.  He looked at her hungrily, veritably smoldering, knowing _exactly_ the effect he was having on her.  Steve had long gotten past the adorably incapable and awkward phase (they had been married now for almost a year, and he knew her body _very_ intimately).  He tended to let her lead on most occasions, which she liked (liked _way_ too much, in fact).  She supposed it was just part of him wanting to let go for a bit, because his inclination to take a backseat extended well beyond the bedroom.  She’d realized that early on in their relationship.  He spent so much time bearing the burden of the big stuff, leading the team, being a symbol to SHIELD and the nation, shouldering the responsibility of making the right calls and being Captain America, that he liked having someone else handle the little decisions sometimes.  What they had for dinner.  Where they lived.  How they decorated.  Where and when they went out.  Still, there was something about him being in control that was undeniably arousing.

On top of that, there was the matter of her pride.  She’d started this with her assertion that nothing so stupid as a spooky Halloween hayride could scare her.  She had to back that up.  “And if I win?” she asked coyly.  “If I don’t get scared?”

“Then I’ll do the housework,” he ventured.

“Not interested in food poisoning from your cooking.”

“Hey!  I can make a few things.”

“That it?  That’s _all_ I get?  Spaghetti seven different ways is not all that appealing, sorry to say.”

His eyes traveled up and down her body like he wanted to _devour_ her.  God, she loved it when he looked at her like this.  “And you can do whatever you want to me.”

She grunted an amused chuckle.  “Sounds like you win no matter what.”

“Sounds like it, doesn’t it.”

Well, when he put it that way…  She extended her hand so they could shake on it.  “Fine.  You’re on.”

He batted her hand away and practically smothered her again, claiming her lips in a searing kiss.  He was always so careful to keep his weight and strength from her, but truth be told, she _liked_ feeling trapped and maybe even a little helpless under him.  _Whatever you want, huh._   “It’s a boo-ty bet,” he husked in her ear.  “Get it?  You know, for Halloween.  Boooo-ty.”

She rolled her eyes and shoved him off her again.  “I get it.  And it’s lame.”

He grinned, ridiculously proud of himself.  “Thanks.”

A little while later, she was dressed in skinny jeans, boots, a sweater, a hoodie, and her coat over that.  She had her hat and gloves, too, because it was unseasonably chilly.  Steve was driving, taking them out into the farmland.  The sun was setting, and the sky was thick with lavender and charcoal clouds.  The trees were shedding their leaves, shivering with their thinning canopies in the breeze.  It was a perfect fall evening, just a little creepy for its quiet, picturesque tranquility.  It took about an hour to get out far enough to find the hayride, nestled as it was on someone’s farm.

Talk about busy.  The place was only open on the weekends and Friday night, so it was loaded with people.  Natasha saw the crowds and frowned.  Honestly, the thought of having to hide in plain sight in front of so many people was more unnerving than anything “scary” they might encounter.  She gave Steve an unhappy look as he parked their car in a field alongside dozens and dozens of others.  “It’ll be fun,” he promised again.

“Doubt it.”

He turned the car off and leaned over.  “Don’t worry, darlin’,” he murmured into her neck.  “I’ll keep you safe.”

“Like you kept me safe on that last mission to Basra?  Oh, that’s right.  That was _me_ saving _you_ from having _your_ butt kicked,” she returned, trying not to care (or notice, but it was _oh so_ hard) that he was nibbling along the nape of her neck.  “Forgot about that, did you?”

“No,” he murmured, “I didn’t.”  He had a hand on her thigh, more towards the knee but still bold for him.  “But a bet’s a bet.  I never said I wouldn’t get scared.”

“Why anyone would want to scare themselves is beyond me.  It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not.  It’s fun.  And it doesn’t matter if I get scared.  What matters is if _you_ get scared.”  He kissed the skin below her ear.  “Besides, we haven’t been on a date in a while.”  Not that they’d ever really “dated”, but she supposed he was right.  “It’s romantic,” he whispered.

“Sure, it is.”

“What’s a monster’s favorite play?”  She turned, pushing his face away from her neck so she could give him a withering look.  “Come on, love.  Humor me.”

“Humor you?”

“Yeah.  What’s a monster’s favorite play?”

She couldn’t believe him.  Sighing, she said, “What’s a monster’s favorite play.”

“Romeo–”  He kissed her neck again, and his hand drifted upward.  “–and Ghouliet.”  He laughed at his own awfulness.  “See?  Romantic.”

Natasha laughed and shoved him away again.  “Get off, Rogers.”

They got out of the car.  The frigid air immediately turned Natasha’s breath into a phantom of vapor right before her lips.  The hum of conversation from the impressive line of people waiting for the hayride was comforting, filling the peaceful evening.  More distantly there was rock music and voices shrieking.  That was an odd combination, but it probably made sense for Halloween.  She donned her hat and gloves, warm and cozy in her coat.  Steve put his on gloves on and his Dodgers cap.  He looked about as incognito has Captain America could be.  He wove his left hand with her right so that she could feel his wedding ring underneath the fabric of her gloves.  It was wedged in between her fingers, more comforting than she could say.  They went to stand in line.

It was always a strange thing to her, standing amidst normal people and not being noticed.  They were like any other young couple (and there was no short of them there that night).  Nobody looked their way twice.  She hated to admit to Steve that he was right, so she didn’t, standing next to him and enjoying the anonymity almost as much as being close to him.  Steve was clearly in a bold mood that night because he immediately struck up a conversation with a group in front of them.  This was a side of him she didn’t see often, and he seemed like any other normal guy, chatting about Halloween and the latest movies (at least he’d seen some of those) and the latest music (and he’d heard a lot of that, thanks to her).  Natasha stayed quiet, tucked into Steve’s side, gazing into the dark rows of corn to their left.  It stretched on and on.  She had to admit it was kind of… creepy.  She really couldn’t see beyond the wall of withered stalks, green and brown and surprisingly tall.

Ahead someone screamed.  There was a mechanical roar.  Natasha whipped around to see what was happening.  A man in a hideous, bloody mask and raggedy clothes was running down the line of waiting people, a chainsaw in his hand.  She noticed immediately that it had no blade, but she couldn’t quite stifle her small, tiny, _barely perceptible_ jerk of surprise.  Steve laughed when the man came toward them.  Natasha gripped his hand just a bit tighter as the girls in the group ahead of them shrieked.  “Gonna slice you up _real_ good,” the actor said as he neared them, swinging the fake chainsaw around so that it nearly came at them.  “You’d look _real_ good in pieces at my feet!”

“Doubtful,” Natasha muttered, keeping her face perfectly impassive.

“Ha ha!” the man roared, and then he was moving onto someone more susceptible to his antics.

They moved up in line a second later, and Steve nudged her lightly.  “You coulda thrown that guy a bone.  He was really into it.  And it was pretty convincing.”

People were yelling and shouting behind them, and the chainsaw motor was still rattling through the night.  “Not convincing enough to scare me,” she firmly declared.

Steve cocked an eye beneath the brim of his hat.  Normally he didn’t much like the cold, but right then his face was flushed from it and his eyes were bright with good fun.  “Don’t know about that.  Felt you shudder there for a second, and don’t try to deny it.”

“I _am_ denying it,” she replied tautly, “because I didn’t shudder.”  She could have smacked him for the haughty smile plastered all over his lips and smacked herself for teaching him to read her so well.   “I didn’t.”

“Uh-huh.”

It was hard to flirt while seeming cold and annoyed, but she managed it beautifully.  “Watch it, Rogers, or you’ll get nothing tonight.”

And of course he saw her empty threat.  “I’m going to win and get everything.”

“You sure about that?”

“Positive.”

She stared right up at him.  “I don’t get scared,” she announced slowly and lowly, annunciating every syllable.

Someone else would have been intimidated, or the very off-put by her firm assertion.  He just smiled.  “We’ll see.”

About forty-five minutes later they were at the head of the line.  Steve bought their tickets, and they went into the barn beyond.  It had been completely outfitted in ghoulish gear and decorations, including a makeshift cemetery of paper mache tombstones and a load of animatronic ghouls and zombies.  A huge screen behind them was playing a horror movie of some sort (she didn’t know which one; it had a teenage girl screaming and running away from some sort of madman.  They were all the same to her).  Beyond the barn there was a large gathering area full of people, and booths surrounded it offering Halloween trinkets, food, and other goodies.  The band was behind there, rocking out to the crowd.  It was very dark now, colder still, and the night was positively alive with a certain something she couldn’t quite describe.  Anxiety and fear married with so much fun and good cheer.  It was infectious, zapping through the horde of people eating and talking and having a nice time, and she couldn’t help but smile.

While they waited for their tickets to be called, Steve went to buy them both hot cider and came back with two steaming Styrofoam cups and something called a funnel cake that was deep fried dough and covered in now molten powdered sugar.  They found a picnic table at which to sit, and they drank and ate their treat.  The cake was delicious, gooey, the kind of thing that melted in her mouth, and she found herself licking her fingers.  He was watching her with heat in his eyes.  “You want something?” she asked, taking an especially long time with sucking her thumb clean.

Before Steve could answer, a huge bang echoed through the night.  Girls screamed again (and a guy or two, high-pitched and decidedly unmanly) as another man dressed as a hideous psycho type ran out of another barn behind them.  Another chainsaw was buzzing loudly, and the guy was swinging it around, sending the crowd scattering, laughing and screaming at once.  Steve turned back to her, smiling, his eyes alight in excitement.  Nonchalantly she sipped her cider.  “It’s cute,” she said.

“Cute?”

“Yes.  For what it is.”

“You’re hard to please.”  He cocked an eyebrow.  “But I bet I can manage tonight.”

Lord, what was it with him and the one track mind?  It was hard not to want to _lose_ the bet with all the long looks and suggestive phrases and ridiculous smoldering he was doing.  And it wasn’t like losing was “losing”.  But even if she was having fun (which she was), telling him would be tantamount to admitting he was right, which she’d never do.  Plus Black Widow did not get scared.  It was impossible.  She needed to prove it to herself almost as much as she needed to prove it to him.

He offered her the last piece of cake.  “All you gotta do is just scream once.  Just a little.  No one will notice.  Promise.  I’ll make it worth your while.”

“It’s not happening,” she retorted, snatching up the last of the cake, popping it in her mouth, and standing.  She walked away, boldly swaying her hips as she passed him but darting out of his reach when he grabbed for her.  “Gotta do a better job than this!”

About thirty minutes later their ticket numbers were called.  The two of them and about thirty other riders were gathered into a corral of sorts at the other end of the area.  Someone was talking loudly over a megaphone, mixing directions with Halloween jokes, puns, and references.  And Steve couldn’t help himself.  They were pressed close together in the anxious crowd, her in front of him, and he kept leaning down to murmur things into her hair in that low voice of his, that rumble against her skin that went straight to her core.  Really _awful_ things.  Things like, “Why do mummies make excellent spies?  Because they keep things under wraps.”  And, “What do you call a person who puts poison in cornflakes?  A cereal killer.”  And, “Why did the mummy call the doctor?  Because he was coffin.”

“Okay, if you tell me one more bad joke, you are cooking and doing the laundry _and_ sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“But they’re great, Nat,” he protested.  “Tony sent me a whole website full of them.”

“Now I know who I need to kill later.”

“Come on, victims!” a man in black face paint bellowed.  Now that they were closer, she could see he was the guy with the megaphone.  “Come on in!  We won’t hurt ya… _much_.”

They went in.  First it was a walk through a haunted barn, which had an overabundance of ultraviolet light to create eerie murals along a maze-like path.  It was cheaper and not as well done, in Natasha’s opinion anyway.  Girls were still screaming ahead and behind them, though at what she couldn’t guess (apparently teenage girls screamed just to scream).  Green and purple black light skulls laughed and scowled and threatened along the way.  One of the people in front of them yelled “boo!” at a group, and everyone squealed and laughed.  Feet thundered through the maze.  “Scared yet?” Steve asked.

“Don’t hold your breath,” she replied confidently.

“It’s a pretty neat effect.”

“You’ve never seen black light before?”

“Yeah, I have, but not like this.”  The skulls painted on the wall had an almost three-dimensional quality to them.  Steve touched one, his artist’s eyes narrowing as he ran his fingers along the mural.  His face seemed grotesque in the odd light.  “Weird.”

They walked further and finally reached the hayride.  It was a tractor, painted black and hooked to a trailer.  It was completely flat and fairly big, enough to carry about three dozen people if they smooshed together.  It was also covered in hay.  _Well, I don’t know what else I was expecting._ Beyond that, the corn field was an impenetrable wall.  A man dressed in dark clothes, looking like some sort of deranged farmer, stood at the head of the flatbed with a microphone in hand.  “Come on, my friends!  Come one, come all!  We’ve got a really fun ride for you.  You guys are a fine looking group of people.  So was the last group, you know.  The last group…  Well, they haven’t exactly come back yet.  Maybe we’ll see ’em out there.”  The man cackled, overly sinister.

There was a loading platform, wooden and rickety, and people were marching up it anxiously to get onto the trailer.  Steve didn’t bother with that, leading Natasha right to the far side of the flatbed.  Next thing she knew he had her about the hips, and he lifted her right on there.  Natasha turned to glare at him, but he was already hoisting himself up (and doing an admirable job of making it seem harder than it was).  He slipped behind her, sitting so that she could lean back into his chest.  “I’m right here,” he said with a ridiculous grin.  “Just hold onto me, baby.”

He was lucky they were in public and she couldn’t do anything to him.  He ignored her icy glare, sliding an arm around her shoulders to pull her against him.  She let him do that, going willingly only because it was cold and he was warm, her back ached a little and he was there, and she was tired and he could support her.  He was a solid wall of muscle, and there was nothing more to it.  Not her heart that was beating faster and harder against her ribs as the tractor rumbled to life.  Not her skin tingling with uncertainty.  Not her senses, alive like this was some sort of mission, scanning the rows of corn apprehensively.  Her legs were dangling off the side, and she felt exposed.  Vulnerable.  _Not scared.  Nope, not in the least.  This isn’t real.  It’s not even fun.  It’s stupid, and he is_ not _winning this bet._

The tractor jerked forward, and she found herself gripping Steve’s arm for support.  “Off we go,” announced the man with the microphone.  “Hopefully you’re ready.  I know my friends ahead are.  Ready and hungry.  Don’t be afraid to scream.  They like to know you’re coming.  So scream away.”

_I refuse._

The tractor bounced uncomfortably over the ruts in the field.  It was so _dark_ ; she hadn’t quite anticipated that.  There were a couple of battery-operated lanterns hanging next to their “tour guide”, but aside from that faint illumination, there was nothing.  She could barely see the tall corn flanking them as the tractor wound its way through the field.  Even she had to admit that it was creepy.  The tractor wasn’t going very fast, and all of the other occupants were talking nervously.  Their tour guide started relaying some hideous tale of an unfortunate crew of thrill-seekers, just like his current passengers, who’d gone out into the corn looking for a good scare Halloween night.  He growled and laughed his way through his gruesome story.  “But you guys must not scare too easily.  No one’s even the least bit frightened?  I gotta hand it to this group.  But then the ones who stand the proudest in the face of fear are the ones who fall the hardest.”  He cackled again.  Natasha rolled her eyes.  “Think we’ll get lost out here?  Not like there’s a sign telling us the way.  Could end up anywhere.”

The group grew quieter, the cold air pressing them tight to each other.  Each rut that jostled the tractor was uncomfortable, and Natasha felt herself growing more on edge for having to wait for something to start.  This was all this was?  Roaming a dark corn field with a loud-mouthed guy trying to seem scary?  Hardly.

Someone else shared her sentiments.  “Is something gonna happen?  My butt’s freezing.”

The man smiled smugly.  “Is something gonna happen,” he repeated.  “I don’t know.  Do you want something to happen?  ’Cause nothing good ever happens out here, pal.  You best be careful about what you’re asking for.”

Just then, someone literally _jumped_ out of the corn.  It was a man, splattered in blood and wearing a gas mask of some sort, and he had a knife.  He threw himself at a girl down from Natasha, and she howled at the top of her lungs.  Natasha whirled, struggling to see in the dark.  Her grip on Steve’s arm tightened.  Then someone grabbed her knee, and the knife – _it’s fake_ – sliced through the air just above her legs.  The man wailed at her, and she honest to God jumped.

A few seconds later, the guy was gone, left behind by the tractor.  She could see a darker shadow running behind them, hollering loudly.  And he was just the first.  A few more monsters and maniacs abruptly jumped out of the corn field to “assault” the hayride, grabbing at passengers, screaming bloody murder, wielding chainsaws and scythes and knives and axes.  There was never a warning.  It was random, exciting, and a tad bit horrifying, and it was so dark and happened so quickly that it was _realistic._   Natasha was surprised, very much so, that it was so effective, but the atmosphere absolutely sucked her in.  People screamed and then broke out in laughter at their own fear.  Girls clung to dates.  Young men lurched, yelping and slapping each other good-naturedly as they were brushed by the actors in the fields.  It was an event to be certain.

“Scared?” Steve whispered in her ear a few minutes into this.  “Because I am.”

Okay, so she was.  Her stomach was knotted in giddy anxiety.  Her skin was crawling, cold with sweat, tingling with phantom touches.  Her heart was jackhammering against her sternum.  She’d never done _anything_ like this before.  Maybe it was a different kind of fear than what she experienced in a bad op or battle, and maybe she _knew_ it was stupid and silly and absolutely ridiculous, but she was undeniably _afraid_.

Still, she denied.  “No.”

“Really?”  There was nothing but doubt in Steve’s voice.  “Hold me any tighter and you’ll break my arm.”

“I’m not scared.”  She shoved his arm off her to prove the point.  As long as she didn’t scream, he couldn’t prove anything.  And she wasn’t going to scream.  She _didn’t_ scream, never had, never would, never, ever, _ever,_ especially not over something so silly as a haunted Halloween hayride.

The tractor reached what looked like a hollowed out barn.  There were red lights and tarps draped over the dilapidated structure and seemingly dripping crimson and…  Natasha grimaced.  Inside was a massive spread of Halloween decorations, _very_ authentic looking ones.  People being dismembered.  Monsters covered in red.  A veritable chamber of nightmares.  She actually found herself turning away and leaning more into Steve.  “This is where things start to go wrong,” the tour guide warned happily.  “Hang onto your friends.”

She hung onto Steve.  “You hiding?” he asked, wrapping his arm around her again.  Then he lurched with a cry as someone screamed in front of them.  One of the “victims” in the display turned out to not be so fake, and she reached right out to them, bloody and grotesque.  Steve laughed, both embarrassed and exhilarated.  “Wow.”

The tractor rumbled on, dragging them through the cornfield to another barn.  This one was designed to look like a graveyard, ghosts rising from tombs, ghouls and goblins, and smoke wafted all around them.  Speakers somewhere were blaring screams and moans which seemed to surround them, ghastly sounds that made gooseflesh stand on end.  People were shrieking everywhere.  Another woman dressed in white charged the flatbed, wailing like she was in excruciating pain.  Steve held Natasha tighter, and she let him.  She was honestly torn between wanting to look to see everything there was and wanting to avert her eyes because _she_ _was not going to let it scare her_ and the best way to prevent that was not to see it _._   There was just no way.  She was Black Widow, and Black Widow did not fall for the stupidity of Halloween.

Well, she was wrong about that.

There was a shadow toward the end of the barn, a huge one, but she didn’t think much of it or notice it even as the tractor resumed pulling them along.  But it moved, and it moved fast.  All she saw was a _towering_ figure with long black arms, _blacker than black_ , reaching toward her and grabbing her.  She squirmed away, pressing her face into Steve, breath locking in her throat for one second, and then…

That was pretty much it.

Later that night, after the rest of the hayride and haunted exhibits, after a round of burgers and fries and milkshakes at a local diner ( _wow_ , she’d been craving chocolate recently), after talking and laughing all the way home (if anyone had known it was Captain America who’d bellowed at the top of his lungs when that thing had come at them, well… she supposed even the bravest of the brave could be undone by a well-orchestrated scare)…  After all that, they were in their bedroom.  It was late and still so very dark.  The wind had picked up, and it moaned lowly as it rattled the nearly naked branches of the big tree by their house against the panes of their window.  The room creaked and settled.  Every shadow seemed to move, hauntingly alive, eerie and disturbing.  Natasha watched outside, _still_ on an anxious high from the rush of the hayride, as Steve pulled his t-shirt off.  He straddled her where she lay in their bed, and she could feel his eyes on her, as hungry as ever, as his hands went to the button of her jeans.  He pulled them off a little less than gently.  Insistently.  “I win.”

“You cheated.”

He sputtered on his breath.  “How?”

“You made me scream.  You screamed so loud that I had to.”

“That is such complete malarkey.  You screamed at the same time I did, Nat.”

“I screamed with you,” she insisted, “because _you_ screamed.”

He stared down at her.  He was covered in shadows, his perfect body barely visible but so very present.  “No lying.  You screamed because you were scared.”  She wasn’t sure she wanted to argue that point, not with him trapping her the way he was, not with his eyes so bright and blue and _smoldering._   He was giving that word a new meaning tonight.  A gleefully scary meaning.  The wind suddenly howled, smacking the branches against the window in a shocking racket, and she went stiff, eyes darting to the side.  Steve smirked, looking down on her almost predatorily.  He grabbed her hands and pinned them.  “Are you scared still?”  He didn’t wait for her to answer, leaning down to kiss her, hard and hungry.  “Are you, baby?”

“Yeah,” she whispered into his lips, too in love with him to do anything other than play along no matter how lame it was.

“Good,” he whispered back.  “Now you get to scream _for_ me, just like I said you would.”  He kissed her again, hotter still, and she moaned, trying to escape and failing miserably (of course, she didn’t try too hard).  His hands were so big and strong that he snatched both her wrists in one so his fingers could dance their way down her chest and stomach until they reached the hem of her sweater.  He pulled it up, up and over her head but leaving her arms tangled in it.  She shivered from the sudden brush of cold air on her skin.  “Aw, don’t be afraid.”

“Rogers, enough.  You’re such…  You…”  She heaved an exasperated sigh, squirming and trying hard not to smile.  “You’re terrible.”

Steve grinned like an idiot after nipping her lower lip teasingly.  He was hot and demanding as he kissed his way to her belly, and then he paused, looking up at her with devious eyes.  “You know what, Romanoff?”

Natasha rolled her eyes, submitting.  She sank into the bed underneath him.  “What.”  He grinned.  “No.  Don’t.  _Don’t_ , you idiot.”

“You’re gore-geous.  Get it?”

She tried to push him away again, but she was gloriously, deliciously helpless, and it wasn’t enough to stop him from laughing smugly.  Or from making good on his promise, and she wrapped her legs around him tight and held him tighter and let him have his _wicked_ way with her.


	36. So She Dances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I've been doing a lot of Natasha dancing recently. Here it is for this story. This is sort of a little lead-up to their first public date coming up in a few chapters. Special thanks to [vbprodz](http://vbprodz.tumblr.com) for offering up so much awesome inspiration for this one!

The Triskelion was quiet.  It was after eight o’clock on a Friday, so Steve supposed that made sense.  People were out, enjoying the beginning of the weekend.  The world of international espionage never slept, and some stations here and at the Hub were always manned so that SHIELD’s eyes and ears were perpetually open and monitoring the world for danger.  But there were times that things were quiet, and this was one of them.  As he headed down through the lower levels of the massive complex, he didn’t pass anyone.  Normally these halls were busy, filled with agents, techs, soldiers, and support personnel.  He wasn’t too far from the mess, either, where earlier that day people had been gathered in abundance.  The mood had been light, and talk had centered on plans for the evening and the upcoming weekend.  Now everything was dark and quiet.  Even the cleaning staff were gone with the day’s work done.

But his day’s work wasn’t done.  It never seemed to be.  He’d spent the morning working with Fury and Stark, going over some matters with concerning the Avengers.  Then he’d met with Agents Hill and Barton to become better acquainted with SHIELD mission protocols.  After that, he’d participated in a conference call with the Army, the Navy, and the Secretary of Defense to help coordinate a joint training program between SHIELD and US military forces.  He’d rounded off the day consulting for a STRIKE mission to reclaim Chitauri weaponry from the black market.  There hadn’t even been time to eat during all that.  He’d hoped to grab a quick bite before now, but the meeting with the STRIKE team had gone longer than he’d anticipated.  _Everything_ was going longer than he’d anticipated.  Catching up on seventy years’ worth of history, technology, scientific advancements, and cultural changes was a huge task, and he was working at it almost constantly.  In the few weeks since the Chitauri invasion, he’d joined SHIELD and relocated from Brooklyn to Washington, DC.  His apartment had already been ready for him, completely furnished and stocked with things he couldn’t figure out how to use.  He’d been assigned a partner, Black Widow, who he hardly knew beyond a few minutes spent together on the battlefield and by reputation (and the latter was hardly comforting).  Though there were other people assisting with his “integration” into modern society, she was the one who was principally in charge of it.  She’d been cool and unreadable when Fury had called the both of them into his office a week ago to give them his orders.  Steve didn’t know what to make of that, what to make of her.  She could be sweet and flirty one second and as cool as a cucumber the next, switching from persona to persona so fast it almost made his head spin.  Since then, they’d worked a single mission together, and after the completion of that she’d simply told him he needed to update his hand-to-hand combat skills.  He’d been a little affronted by that.  He was a soldier and had fought in the biggest, bloodiest war the world had ever seen.  He’d been trained by SSR’s best.  Still, he was willing to let his ego go and give whatever she wanted to teach him a try.

It was just one more thing, to be honest.  One more thing that wasn’t right.  One more thing he didn’t know that he needed to know.  One more thing that he needed to take in.  One more adjustment, one more recalibration to his thinking, one more fact he needed to accept as truth because that was the way it was.  Everything had changed while he’d been sleeping, and he needed to change too because one thing was hard and fast and immutable: the new world, much like the old one, needed him.  He was a fast learner; he’d been a quick study before the serum, but nowadays he surprised everyone, including himself sometimes, with how easily and efficiently he picked things up.  Still, it seemed insurmountable, this endless pile of things he needed to learn.  He thought he was doing okay with it all.  The psychologists Fury had him seeing thought so, too.  But the demands on Captain America couldn’t wait for Steve Rogers to take a breather and really _digest_ the shock of waking up seventy years in the future, so there was often no time to do anything other than keep going.

Which was why he was _still_ here, even though he was exhausted and hungry.  This was the only time today that he’d had free, where he’d been able to carve out a moment to meet with Agent Romanoff.  She wanted to start his martial arts training tonight.  Of course he hadn’t complained or said no when she’d texted him about that earlier that afternoon.  Part of him had certainly wanted to.  Part of him definitely wanted to go home (well, home as it was now) and shut his mind off for a while.  Decompress and grieve a little (he was still working through that, and he knew he would be for a long, _long_ time).  And part of him was wondering why _she_ was still here tonight.  Didn’t she have plans?  Didn’t she have something better to do than teach Captain America how to throw a punch in the twenty-first century?  He knew she didn’t have any family; he’d read her file along with those of the other Avengers during the Loki incident.  But didn’t she have friends, people with whom she relaxed and unwound from the day?  He knew she’d been as busy as he was that week.  Didn’t she switch off?

It didn’t matter.  Physically he could handle whatever she wanted to do and much more.  Emotionally he could muddle through.  He supposed he should have been thankful, actually, that she was taking the extra time to work with him.  It was fine.  It wasn’t like going home to an empty apartment and his memories were all that appealing, anyway.

He descended into the training areas, his photographic memory helping him navigate through the labyrinth of the Triskelion even though he’d only been to the elaborate gymnasiums once before.  He had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder full of workout clothes, his jacket draped over it where it hung by his hip.  It was eerily quiet down here, his shoes echoing loudly on the polished tiles of the hallways.  Normally agents and soldiers would fill the rooms around him.  Here classes were taught, led by the best the world had to offer in martial arts, combat, and gymnastics.  Recruits trained hard for the rigors and dangers of field work.  He passed the massive pool, a few courts for basketball or racquetball, workout rooms filled with expensive exercise equipment he could barely name (what happened to simple jumping-jacks and pushups?).  He headed toward the training room with the number Romanoff had texted him before.  Most of these places were dark and empty, the broad expanses of floors and mats idle and silent.  The one where she’d told him she’d be was dark, too.  He stepped inside, and the computer must have detected his entrance (how did _that_ work?  Yet another thing he needed to file away to look up later) because the fluorescent lights immediately switched on and flooded the room in bright illumination.  She wasn’t there.  He glanced at his watch (even though his brain’s sense of time was so accurate now he could figure it out down to the minute).  He was a little early, a few minutes or so, but he was sort of surprised she wasn’t already there.  He got the impression from her that no one got the jump on her, that she was effortlessly in control of _everything._   “Agent Romanoff?” he called, even though it was obvious he was alone.  Maybe she was in the adjacent locker room?  He wasn’t going to go looking, even if she was.  It wasn’t right.  He took another few steps in.  “Romanoff?”

There was no answer.  Perplexed, Steve spun around slowly, checking yet again if there was something he just wasn’t seeing.  A note maybe?  Some hint that she’d be back?  He pulled his phone from his pocket and thumbed it on ( _gently_ – he’d already busted two of these things.  Sensitive electronics did not mix well with super strength as it turned out, and they didn’t make things nowadays like they used to).  He was still figuring this whole smartphone thing out, but he saw there was no text message from her.  No email from her (although there was a whole slew of them from SHIELD.  He’d have to deal with all that later).  “Okay,” he breathed, confused.  He stood there uselessly a moment more, wondering what he was supposed to do.  Had she forgot?  That seemed even more unlikely than her being late.  “Now what?”

Again, there was no answer.  However, there was _something_ , something softly swishing and lightly thudding.  His hearing was as enhanced as the rest of him, so sounds that anyone else would have missed completely he picked up clearly.  It was coming from a slightly ajar door on the other side of the room.  He crossed the distance tentatively, watching his reflection in the huge windows lining the side of the room.  The room beyond was smaller, with wooden floors and white walls.  There was a bar fastened to the wall that extended the length of the window, and mirrors glimmered along either side of the room.  Steve stared, utterly perplexed.  He knew what it was.  _A dance studio._   The Triskelion offered classes other than combat training to its agents, soldiers, and personnel for enrichment, relaxation, or unusual mission preparation.  What was even stranger about finding a place like this buried in the most secure building in the world was who was in it.

She was there, dancing across the floor like she was made to do it.  She was dressed in a black, satin leotard that hugged her slender form, with a short skirt that flowed around her thighs as she moved.  Black ribbons encircled her calves in a crossing pattern, tying ballet slippers into place.  Her red hair was loosely pinned back, but it, too, moved fluidly like waves of fire.  She was gliding, the long lines of her body precise and effortless.  There was so much grace to it, grace in the subtle shape of her hands, in the twists of the powerful muscles of her torso and legs, in the angle of her neck, in the arc of her back.  There was even grace in her shadow as it danced after her, an echo that mimicked her across the floor.  Grace and elegance.  Power.  _Perfection._

Steve stood at the door, absolutely transfixed.  Shock was a warm sensation that rolled over him, shock married with an increasingly strong sense of awe.  He’d read her file, but he didn’t remember seeing anything about this.  He didn’t know a thing about dancing, at least nothing beyond a clumsy version of the Lindy Hop that he’d never even used because no dame had ever been interested in dancing with him before Peggy and he’d never gotten a chance with her.  Not that the Lindy Hop was anything like this.  This was… _beautiful._   There was no music, but he could imagine it just from the way she moved, the way the melody would have to swell, the low melancholic murmur of strings, the heavier addition of deep horns, the swish of cymbals or the thud of timpani.  Harmonies in the leaps and turns, crescendos and diminuendos flowing from quicker steps or slower spins.  He could _feel_ it inside, as if her rhythm was his beating heart, the breaths in and out of his lungs, and flow of life in his body.  For this moment, everything was far away.  What had happened.  Everything and everyone he’d lost.  All the stress of this new world.  All his doubts and fears.  All his grief.  He was watching her dance, and there was nothing else.

Without thinking, he stepped silently inside the room, staying close to the corner along the wall and out of her way.  Did she know he was there?  She didn’t seem to.  Her eyes were glazed, her expressionless face deep in concentration, a light sheen of sweat shining on her skin.  Should he announce his presence?  It seemed the right thing to do, since he was sort of intruding.  But he didn’t.  He was speechless, thoughtless.  She went on, distant and untouchable yet so very present and close, and he watched every second, absorbed it all, memorized every detail without even meaning to.  It seemed wrong not to do that, not to let this into him.  Not to observe it, treasure it, appreciate it.  She wasn’t exactly giving it to him, but here it was, right before him, and it was impossible not to take it.  Steve had never stolen a thing in his life, but this moment he stole greedily.

The seconds disappeared, one after another after another, and he let them.  And as he stood there, he realized something.  There was a feeling inside, something quiet and small.  Something, though, that was somehow powerful, too.  Something he’d felt once between and had lost, maybe forever.  It grew with each one of those seconds that were slipping away, amplifying like the music in his mind that was building into an incredible conclusion, and he started to recognize it.  When he’d seen Peggy he’d felt this way.  Awe.  Admiration.  Appreciation.  _Adoration._   And this…  This was somehow more, as soft and seemingly insignificant as it was.  His heart beat faster.  He breathed deeper.  That tingling sense of energy rushed over him.  He imagined what it would be like, just for a moment.  To have her in his arms.  To move with her.  To dance with her.  To dance like he hadn’t been able to.  There was grief there, but it wasn’t as bad as he feared.  No, he felt _good_ , safe, like he was where he was meant to be.  For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt warm.

Before he could so much as accept that, though, it was over.  He leaned against the wall ever so slightly, and his jacket slipped right off his duffel bag and flopped loudly to the floor.  Natasha stopped, dropping right from the very tips of her toes, and turned around.  Steve flushed in horror and shame, eyes widening and mouth going dry.  “Oh, geez.  I didn’t mean to…”  He swallowed, trying to think, as he knelt to scoop up his coat.  He’d never been good at things like this.  Natasha set her hands to her hips, breathing a bit heavily, staring sternly at him.  That was enough to make him want to bolt, but he stumbled on like an idiot.  “I mean, I’m sorry.  I should’ve said I was here.”

She didn’t smile, regarding him so coldly that he was sure he’d made a monumental mistake, seen something he was _never_ meant to see.  She blew out a sharp breath.  “You alright, Rogers?  You look kinda flushed.”

That definitely took him aback.  “What?  Me?  Oh, I’m fine.  I just…  I didn’t know you…”  He shook his head, mouth racing ahead of his brain.  “Where’d you learn to dance like that?”

The second the question was out, he regretted it.  He didn’t know much about her, but the fact that she had secrets was extremely obvious.  He shouldn’t be prying.  It really wasn’t his business.  Still, this wasn’t quite right.  She was too smart to be caught unawares, too smart to let her guard down accidentally.  Which meant she’d known he would come (of course she would’ve), which meant she’d known he’d see her dancing.  Which meant she’d known he’d ask.  Which meant this was okay.  Right?

Her face remained impassive.  She was staring at him.  Judging him, maybe.  He couldn’t tell.  She was incredibly difficult to read.  Suddenly she moved toward her own bag by the window, grabbing a towel to wipe her face.  “The Red Room where I was trained,” she answered, and he was so shocked he’d forgotten his question so it took him a moment to make sense of that.  At first it seemed like she’d offer nothing more as she dug in her bag for a bottle of water.  Surprisingly, though, she went on.  “Not too many people know the truth about it.  I was one of the ballerinas of the Bolshoi.  That was their cover.  They taught us to dance.  They used it to cover what they were really doing.  People see beauty, and they don’t think twice about what’s underneath.”  _Murder._   It was unspoken but harsh all the same.  She took a big drink of the water, the muscles of her throat grabbing his eyes as she swallowed.  She finished with a long breath, wiping at her face again.  “Things are rarely what they seem.”

He was realizing that more and more.  And there was something in her voice.  Distant pain.  Regret.  But strength and acceptance, too.  He heard all of that, and a thousand questions filled his head.  Things he didn’t understand.  Things he didn’t know.  Things he _wanted_ to know.  Things he wanted to ask.

He didn’t get a chance to.  She smiled all the sudden, bright and beautiful, and the topic was closed for discussion.  “You ready to do this?”

Right.  That brought it all back double quick.  He was here to train so that he could be a SHIELD agent, so that he could lead the Avengers.  So that he could function seven decades removed from his old life.  He schooled his expression so that the frown he knew was threatening never showed itself. “Uh, sure.  Just let me go change.”

 She grabbed her bag, resting it over her shoulder, and came to stand in front of him.  Eyes that were blue _and_ green (he’d never really noticed that before) watched him, steeped in sharp intelligence and wisdom beyond her years and so much he didn’t understand.  She stared right into his eyes with that intense, intimidating way that she had, that way that normally made him nervous.  Right now he inexplicably found it… _comforting._   There was a reason, he thought.  She was _seeing_ him.  “You know what, Rogers?  Forget training tonight.”

“Huh?”

“Let’s go get dinner instead.”

Flabbergasted, he shook his head.  “Dinner?”

“Supper?  The evening meal?  You with me here, Cap?”

“Yeah, of course I’m with you.  But you said I needed to–”

“I know what I said.  But now I’m saying this.”  She shrugged seemingly uncaringly.  “You look like you need a break, so it’ll wait.  Let’s get dinner.”  The way she said that seemed so simple, so obvious.  “Okay?”

He couldn’t help but smile.  “Um, sure.  Yeah, dinner sounds nice.”

“And I’m taking you shopping.”

“Shopping?”

She smirked as she stuck her finger under one of his suspenders and pulled lightly.  The elastic made it snap back against his chest when she released it.  “Nobody wears stuff like this anymore.  You need a crash course in not dressing like you’re ninety.”

He frowned, looking down at his blue shirt and nicely pressed pants and gray jacket.  “What’s the matter with suspenders?”

“I rest my case.”  She trailed her fingers a little longer across his chest than necessary, grinning, _flirting_ , and he felt weak in the knees.  His stomach clenched up in nervous flutters, and all his blood went south of his brain in a hurry.  “I’m going to go get changed.  Give me fifteen?”  Not trusting himself to speak intelligibly, he nodded.  “Alright.  Wait for me outside.”  She smiled again before walking past him, shoes nearly silent as she glided anew across the gleaming floors, heading back to the other room and likely to the locker rooms after that. 

He watched her go.  Suddenly it didn’t seem right not to say anything.  “Hey, Natasha?”  She stopped and turned to him.  “It’s not just a cover.  You’re a beautiful dancer.”

She nodded, grinning softly.  “Thanks, Steve.”  She was gone then, leaving him to wonder at her, at her secrets and mysteries, and wonder even more how much she had let him see.  How much more she still might with the vast possibilities of their partnership before them.  He smiled at the empty dance studio.  A blank canvass, he supposed.  And a not-so stolen moment.  A glimpse underneath all her masks.  Something in this new world that felt right, sweet, and perfect.

Across his new memories, she was dancing still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And even more thanks to [vbprodz](http://vbprodz.tumblr.com) for this lovely artwork:


	37. Trick or Treat!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Happy Halloween, everyone! This got long (and ridiculous) and contains a little ode to an upcoming movie for which I'm sure we're all super excited. Quick note: those of you who want Steve and Natasha to finally "do the do", as it were, it won't happen in this story because of the rating. Check [_Heart of the Storm_](http://archiveofourown.org/series/179561) or [_The Sexy Misadventures of Agents Romanoff and Rogers_](http://archiveofourown.org/series/341926) for that.
> 
> Alright, enjoy!

“What in the world are you supposed to be?”

Steve frowned.  He looked down at his costume.  “Seriously, Buck?”  Bucky had to be pulling his leg.  Had to be.  The long brown robes he was wearing were fairly unmistakable, particularly when combined with the light tan tunic and pants he had on underneath them.  That and the _lightsaber_ clipped to his belt.  “You’re unbelievable.”

“What?  I don’t get it.”

“I’m a Jedi knight, you idiot.  From _Star Wars_?”

Bucky cocked an eyebrow.  They’d been friends for more than thirty years ( _thirty_ years, though nearly a hundred in real time, which was even freakier), and he could still put Steve on.  “Did we watch that?  I don’t remember.”

Steve decided not to play into this garbage.  They’d watched _Star Wars_ a few times now, the latest not too long ago, in fact.  “And you’re asking _me_ what I’m supposed to be?  What are you?”

“Ain’t it obvious?”  Steve’s brow furrowed, looking at Bucky’s shirt.  He looked like he always looked.  A little unkempt, with a layer of stubble coating his jaw and his hair down to his shoulders.  He wore blue jeans, sneakers, and a leather jacket.  And a black shirt that very calmly stated in bold lettering: “THIS IS MY COSTUME”.  “I’m going as me.”

Steve rolled his eyes.  “That brings laziness to a whole new low.”  Back when they’d been kids, Bucky had loved Halloween.  Of course, they’d been poor, and the cold, damp air of October hadn’t much agreed with Steve’s bad lungs, so they’d rarely gone out.  Still, Bucky had always made it fun, and they’d read books and made up spooky stories and had a wonderful time, even if they spent it in Steve’s room in his mother’s little apartment.  Nowadays, Halloween was a much different affair than it had been before.  Family and friends aside, it was a grand event full of costumes and candy, decorations gory and not, and fun for people of all ages.

Except apparently ex-assassins approaching the century-mark.  Bucky seemed to have something of a love-hate relationship with Halloween in the twenty-first century.  Steve understood why.  Even though for the most part, Halloween was a cute holiday because he and Natasha had little kids, it was also filled with imagery that didn’t sit well with Bucky.  It hit too close to home when it tried to turn real horrors into fun with serial killers, violence, and nightmares.  Silly scares meant for a jolt of fun adrenaline and a good laugh had the opposite effect on him, and Steve could appreciate why.  Bucky had gotten over so much of the damage HYDRA had done to him, but some things would always linger, and Steve was just thankful Bucky was willing to participate.

“Unca Buck!  Unca Buck!”  James came tearing to the front entryway of their new house.  They’d moved in just a couple of weeks ago.  With Joseph coming into their family, he and Natasha had quickly realized their old house wasn’t quite big enough, so they’d moved onto a secluded street (into a place much larger than their needs, but they certainly had the money, so why not?).  Everything was still in a state of upheaval, things in boxes and rooms not quite unpacked, but Natasha had very boldly declared the Avengers could have their annual Halloween get-together at their new place.  She loved hosting (even if she’d never admit it), so everyone was coming tonight for the party.  And the house was completely decked out.  Jack-o-lanterns were carved and already aglow on the front porch, fake spider webs clung to the bushes and trees outside, scary ghosts dangled from their porch and ceiling, and orange and black decorations hung everywhere inside and out.  For someone who hadn’t much liked Halloween when they’d first gotten married, she was sure into now that they had kids.

Hence this costume idea she’d come up with for her boys.  James was into _Star Wars_ something fierce right now (which was ironic, considering he hadn’t seen it – hurray for the powers of marketing to kids, as Tony put it).  He’d put aside his love for cars like he’d never loved them at all, and everything was Jedi and Sith and lightsabers and the like.  So she’d suggested for trick or treating (and the Halloween party) that Steve dress as a Jedi master and James could be his apprentice.  James had been and still was _off-the-wall_ excited.  “Look at me, Unca Buck!”  He whipped out his plastic lightsaber, making humming noises as he swung it around with all the grace of a four year-old.  He was dressed in a matching get-up, brown robe and tan clothes and boots.  Natasha had even cut his hair into a crew cut (which she never did) and somehow found a little blond braid which she’d pinned behind his ear.  He was pretty cute, even if Steve had no idea where his wife had found the time to do all this, decorate and cook to feed an army (whatever she was making smelled amazing) and get their costumes together all while practically running SHIELD and taking care of their family and a new baby, too.  She was amazing.  He just did what he was told most days.  James came back, reaching for Bucky.  “I’m a Jedi!  I’m a Jedi!”

“Ah, young Master Rogers,” Bucky said, and right then and there Steve knew he was full of it about not remembering _Star Wars_ , “you still have much to learn.  Still, I sense the Force is strong with you.”

James beamed and ran back, grabbing his plastic bucket and tearing around the living room in overwhelming excitement.  “Can we go, Daddy?” he cried, returning and snatching Steve’s hand and jumping up and down.  “Daddy!  Daddy!  Can we go now?”

“When Uncle Clint gets here,” Steve reminded, “which should be soon.”

“Clint on time?”  Bucky rolled his eyes.  Before he could say anything more (despite having made his peace with Barton when Joseph had been born, he and the archer still didn’t quite see eye-to-eye), Natasha came down from upstairs.  She had Joe on her hip, who was dressed in a baby Yoda costume.  Bucky couldn’t help but burst out laughing at that, at the little Jedi outfit with the green, felt ears extending from Joseph’s head.  Steve chuckled, too.  “I can’t tell if that’s adorable or ridiculous.”

“Adorable,” Natasha decided.  She handed Joseph to Steve, stopping to give Bucky a kiss on the cheek.  “That’s a new low.”  She arched an eyebrow at his “costume”.

“You should talk,” Bucky returned.  “Where’s yours?”

She flashed a look at Steve that was nothing less than sultry.  He almost missed it.  She’d been _very_ secretive about her costume this year, not even saying if she was going along with the _Star Wars_ theme.  Usually she wasn’t this sneaky (oh, who was he kidding?  She was always sneaky.  She was Black Widow, for crying out loud).  “I’ll get changed later.  Need to finish cooking first.”

There was the sound of car doors closing outside, and James ran to the front windows.  “It’s Unca Clint!” he announced.  He ran to the door, charging past Bucky, and barreled out to where Clint and Laura were getting out of their car with Lila and Cooper.  Lila looked to be dressed as a princess (not surprisingly; she loved princesses) and Cooper was a zombie.  Clint was loudly commenting about how cool James looked and how nice it was that he wasn’t Captain America this year.  Steve had to agree.  In fact, Steve was _thrilled_ James hadn’t wanted to be Captain America this year.  He had been every year since he’d been born.  The idea had been planted and cultivated by Tony because he “thought it was cute”, but Steve thought it was mostly revenge for the fact that, as the Avengers became more and more merchandized, the Captain America costume had been ranked as the number one seller a couple years in a row, beating Iron Man.  Tony had crafted baby James a special Captain America costume, complete with a tiny replica shield, the first year, and every year since he’d gone out of his way to make sure “little Cap” or “Cap Junior” made his annual appearance.  Frankly, as Steve had wearily proclaimed to Natasha, if he never saw another Captain America costume, he’d die happy.  Last year there had been so many when he’d taken James out trick-or-treating that it had become a joke.  It still made him a little uncomfortable even after all these years, just how much people idolized him.

Laura and Clint came in with their kids, and greetings were exchanged.  James immediately ran to Lila and Cooper, and the three started positively frothing at the mouth with anticipation, running around and yelling “boo!” and laughing.  Bucky took one look at Clint and coolly cocked an eyebrow.  “What are you?”

Clint grinned.  He had a huge, bushy beard on, gray like Gandalf’s from _Lord of the Rings,_ and a matching wig that went down past his shoulders.  A wizard’s hat sat atop that, pointing into the sky, and he carried a very medieval-looking staff.  But with those things he wore an old pair of jeans and a Giants jersey.  “I’m fantasy football.”  He turned around, giving them a view.  “Get it?”

Steve couldn’t help but laugh.  Bucky shook his head, trying to hide his amusement.  “Wow.  That’s about the worst idea ever.”

“Yeah, you’re jealous,” Clint confidently said.  He raised his arms.  “You shall not pass!” he yelled, gesticulating wildly like the scene in the movie.  “This is a rushing play!”  Steve laughed louder at how stupid that was.  Clint grinned.  “We ready to do this?”

Natasha came over, crouched in front of James, and gave him a kiss.  “Have a good time.”  She kissed Joseph, too, before tucking a blanket around him.  She handed Steve the baby’s bucket for candy.  “Be back in an hour?”

“You got it,” Steve promised, and with that, they were off.

It was dusk, chilly but not so much as to be uncomfortable, as their group walked down the driveway to the street.  They turned left.  James, Lila, and Cooper talked loudly about their favorite candy and favorite scary stories.  The three men held back, Joseph drooling tons onto Steve’s shoulder.  Their new home was pretty setback from the road and far enough from the neighbors that they walked for a minute or two before finding their first house.  When said house appeared around the corner, the kids took off in a run.  Steve thought to go after them; this was the first year James was really _getting_ Halloween, the whole trick-or-treating thing.  Bucky gave a little shake of his head and a knowing smile, though, he stayed put.  He watched from the end of the driveway as the three children tore across the lawn and up to the front door.  The doorbell was rung, and the door was enthusiastically knocked.  When it creaked open, there was a chorus of “trick or treat!”  “Oh, look at you!  You’re a monster?  And a beautiful princess.  And a Jedi!”

“My dad’s a Jedi master,” James proudly proclaimed as the nice lady put candy in his bucket.  At least that was better than every other year.  _“My dad is Captain America!”_   It was probably the only day the whole year through where saying that was okay.  Nobody in their old neighborhood had ever thought twice that James had actually been telling the truth.

This lady smiled.  “Is he now?”

“Whaddya guys say?” Clint called from the street.

“Thank you!” came another chorus, and the lady bade them all a happy Halloween, and they were off again.

They went on like that for a while.  The kids were alive with good cheer, laughing and racing from house to house.  All around them the night came to life, other groups of youngsters coming out as it got darker.  Werewolves and superheroes and witches and ghosts.  Costumes of every type and color.  Sure enough, there was no shortage of Captain America this year.  Boys.  Girls, in combat suits and skirts alike.  Even the parents.  Steve rolled his eyes as the ribbing started.  “You know, Cap, I think you should seriously consider that one,” Clint declared after they caught sight of an older girl in a “Captain America” costume that more resembled one of the getups that the USO girls had worn more than anything else.  Plus glitter.  _Loads_ of glitter.  “It’ll be flattering for your figure!”

“I like the sparkling on the shield,” Bucky added.  “I’m sure Stark can figure out how to make yours do that.”

“You guys are jerks,” Steve replied as the kids charged another house.  Their buckets were getting heavy, and they were dragging them a little.  “I liked it better when you were giving each other a hard time.”

“What’s that saying?”  Clink winked, though that was pretty comical underneath all the hair of his wig and beard.  “War makes for strange bed fellows.  The same could be said for teasing.  And get up there.”

“Huh?”

“You got Joe.”  He did have Joe.  The baby was fast asleep now, face tucked into Steve’s neck.  He’d been interested for the first dozen houses or so.  Now that they’d wandered further from home and the night had gotten darker and colder, he’d cuddled up in his blanket and nodded off.  “Joe’s a kid.  So go up there and get candy.”

“Joe’s six months old,” Steve corrected.  He eyed James, Lila, and Cooper and their overflowing horde.  “Besides, I don’t think they need anymore.”

“Not for them, Rogers,” Clint came back, exasperated.  “For us.”

Steve eyed him doubtfully.  “Seriously?  How old are you?”

“Old enough not to care.  Fetch me treats, Captain.  But no candy corn.  I hate candy corn.”

Bucky smirked.  “There.  Finally something we can agree on, Barton.”  Clint grinned, happy at that, and Bucky gestured to the next house.  A group of kids was leaving, and theirs were going in.  The house was utterly decked out in Halloween gear, complete with some sort of strobe light effect on the porch and frightful music playing.  “Hop to it, Steve.”

Steve sighed, long-suffering, and adjusted Joseph in his arms before following his older son up the walk to the house.  The people there were nice, didn’t look twice when he held out Joseph’s bucket for candy.  Neither did the people in the next house, remarking instead how cute James was and how sweet their little ensemble of Jedi costumes were, and James announced proudly _again_ that he was his dad’s apprentice.  None of the people said a thing, in fact, and in no time at all, Steve had a pile of candy that a six month-old couldn’t possibly (and wouldn’t) eat.  He handed the full bucket to Bucky.  “Bon appetit.”

“Sweet.  Literally.”  Clint was already digging in their haul.  “Hey, the Reese’s are mine, Barnes.”

“Not on your life, Barton.”

“You gonna throw down?  Again?  You know what happened last time.”

“I kicked your ah–” Steve shot him a warning glare.  “– _butt_ last time.  And that wasn’t even when there was candy on the line,” Bucky returned, snatching the orange wrapper and tearing into it before Clint could get it.  Bucky had always had something of a sweet tooth, and back when they’d been little, this amount of candy was unheard of, let alone awarded to a baby in the manner of minutes.  With super soldier metabolism and an endless abundance of food, both he and Steve ate like horses.  He took a bite, chewed, and grinned, eyes rolling back into his head in exaggerated pleasure just to frost Clint’s cookies.  “Mmmm…  So good.  I could die happy in a sea of peanut butter cups.”

They walked on.  It was really dark now, and they probably should have started heading back, but the kids were having fun, and now that they had their own supply of candy, they were having even more.  Clint and Bucky raided the bucket and sent Steve in for replenishments when it ran out of the stuff they liked.  Steve sighed and acquiesced, slightly morally conflicted about using his baby to extort candy from strangers on behalf of two master assassins but not enough to stop (besides, he didn’t think there was anything in the world tastier than Twix.  Those were his fee for services rendered).  They went on and on, visiting house after house after house, and Steve knew they had been gone well more than an hour.  “Think we should head back?”

Clint straightened Lila’s tiara for her before sending her with James to another brightly lit house.  “An hour was a suggestion, wasn’t it?”

Steve frowned.  He was getting somewhat tired of carrying Joey around.  His muscles weren’t susceptible to the same sort of fatigue that bothered other people thanks to the serum, but even still he was nearing the end of his interest in trick-or-treating.  He wasn’t the only one (well, aside from Joe, too).  James was starting to drag, and his bucket was getting so full that Bucky had transferred a bit of it to Joseph’s emptier one.  Cooper was still marching onward, but Lila was wearing thin, too.  “We have a party to go to.”

“This is a party,” Clint argued.  He popped yet another piece of chocolate in his mouth.  Steve had lost track of how many he’d had.  A lot.  “Besides, you think we’re going to be allowed to eat like this back there?”

“Sucks for you two,” Bucky returned, unwrapping another candy bar.  “I ain’t married, so I can eat whatever I want.”  He made a show of chewing the sweet again, and Steve rolled his eyes.

They went a little longer.  When James, Lila, and Cooper came back from the latest house, it was obvious the little ones were done and Cooper was contented enough with his massive bag of goodies that he had no qualms about calling it.  They’d raided almost the whole neighborhood, anyway, so it was time to pack it in.  “Ready?” Clint asked his kids, and Lila whined about being carried.  He shook his head.  “Dad’s back can’t take that.  Besides, it’s not far.  We’ll be back to Uncle Steve’s house before you know it.”

Well, that turned out not to be the case.  They started walking back, winding up along the hilly roads of the neighborhood, not really thinking much of it.  They’d gone pretty far, so it was going to take some time to get back, right?  That made sense.  But they walked and walked, many long minutes of it in fact, and Steve was starting to realize things didn’t look exactly familiar.  “Um…”  He turned around, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed.  Had they come this way?  It seemed like it.  It seemed like they had to have.  Still, he thought they would’ve reached his street by now.  He glanced at Clint and Bucky, trying to gauge if they had any better sense of where they were without having to ask (because if he had to ask, there’d be no living it down.  Forever).  They were both impassive, betraying nothing, and Steve refused to admit anything to them, let alone to himself, so he boldly led them on.

His ruse didn’t last.  “Are we lost?” Clint asked, scrutinizing the dark road around them and then Steve.  “I think we’re going in circles.”

“No,” Steve quickly answered.  “It’s up right ahead there.”  _I hope._

They walked a bit further, and it became more than obvious it was _not_ right ahead there.  In fact, it was not ahead at all.  Steve worried his lower lip with his teeth a little, increasingly embarrassed and desperate to hide it.  Of course, there was no hiding anything.  “Explain to me how the world’s best liar fell in love with the world’s worst one,” Clint commented when it became undeniably clear that they had no idea where they were.

“He’s always been bad at it,” Bucky added, turning around and trying to get his bearings.  “How do you get lost in your own neighborhood?”

“It’s only been a couple of weeks since we moved here!” Steve retorted hotly.  “And it’s dark.”

“And you’re Captain America,” Clint said, a little irritated.  “Dark doesn’t bother you.  I’ve seen you remember every detail of a tactical map after looking at it for a second.  You can’t remember what roads lead back?”

He had no excuse, except for the fact that he’d been busy the last couple of weeks.  He knew his path through their neighborhood on his way back from the Avengers facility or the city, but he hadn’t exactly had time to go exploring.  “Daddy,” James moaned tiredly, pulling on Steve’s hand.  “Are we lost?”

“No, absolutely not,” Steve said.  “We are _not_ lost.”

“Then which way?” Clint said as they reached an intersection.

Steve ground his teeth together.  “Why don’t you know?  You’re Hawkeye.”

Clint shrugged.  “Wasn’t paying attention.  I was enjoying a wonderfully spooky evening with my kids and my friends.  And candy.”  He chewed something before swallowing.  “And I thought our fearless leader would know the way.  Besides, you have the Force to help you.”  Steve gave him a withering look.  “What?”

Clint was useless.  Sighing, Steve turned to Bucky.  “What about you?”

Bucky shrugged, too.  “You lead.  I follow,” he replied.  “Been that way forever.  Didn’t see a reason to change it.”

Steve groaned.  _Both_ of them were useless.  “Lord, you two are terrible.”

“We’re terrible?  We didn’t get us lost.”  Steve opened his mouth to argue, despite how childish it was, because _this_ _wasn’t his fault_ , but Bucky waved him quiet before he could.  “The place isn’t that big.  We’ll find it.  And it’s not like we _can_ get lost.  We’re us.”

“ _You_ two are super soldiers,” Clint corrected.  “Some of us bland, unenhanced folk are tired.  And my stomach hurts.”

“That’s what you get when you–”

“You gonna lecture me, Barnes?”

“You need a lecture, Barton?”

“Alright, quit it,” Steve said sternly, not interested in listening to any bickering, especially coming from two grown men.  James tugged on his arm insistently, looking up at him with weary eyes.  “I know, big guy.  I know.  Either of you two have your phones?”

Clint shook his head, surrendering finally and scooping Lila up off the street.  He settled her on his hip.  “No.  And even if I did, there’s no way.  I’m not calling Laura.  You’re not calling Nat.  They will _never_ let us live this down.”  Bucky opened his mouth, likely to suggest calling someone else. Someone like Sam.  Sam was good and trustworthy and _loyal._   He’d keep this quiet and–  “No,” he insisted firmly like he could read their minds.  “Wilson will blab.  Natasha has everyone on the team terrified of her.  We’re on our own.”

“Then let’s go,” Steve said resolutely.  “How hard can it be?”

Fairly hard, as it turned out.  Bucky eventually carried James when his whining became more grating than Clint’s whining (which was saying something).  They plodded on, Cooper the only one left standing of the kids as they slogged up and down the winding, hilly roads.  There weren’t so many of them, nor so many houses, but there was a lot of ground to cover.  Steve wracked his brain as they walked, trying to remember details about the homes they passed, but it was really all a blur.  He simply hadn’t paid attention, and there’d been so many.  Finally, _finally,_ they reached a corner, and Steve _knew_ where they were.  This intersection was familiar, as were the houses on it and the kids around it.  He felt like cheering.  He did a little, beaming and whooping like _this_ was a serious accomplishment.  Bucky just shook his head and rolled his eyes, hauling James’ overflowing pumpkin up with his metal arm as James rode on his shoulders.  Clint was groaning and huffing, doubling over and complaining about his stomach (Bucky was right; that _was_ what happened when you ate a ton of sugar and walked this much), complaining about how much further, complaining about how long they’d been going.  In reality, it had only been maybe thirty minutes since they’d turned back, but with his amount of moaning, it had seemed like an eternity.  Steve shook his head as Clint groaned some sort of thanks to God ( _really?_ ) before following up the road toward the new house.

Ahead, with the moon dim and pale behind wisps of clouds, with the jack-o-lanterns burning bright and orange and purple lights lining the unfamiliar shape of the porch, with night alive with noise, the house looked simultaneously warm and scary.  The weary trick-or-treaters plodded closer, dragging with every step, until they were finally at the front door.  Cooper rang the doorbell.  “Coop, just go in,” Clint gasped, setting Lila down.  “You don’t need to–”

The door opened.  “Ah, children!  There is no need to pose your festive question to me.  Verily I will bestow treats upon you, for I have no wish to be tricked upon this ghoulish evening.”

“Gya?” Clint gasped.

It was Thor but Thor dressed in faded gray and green plaid shorts and an equally washed out purple t-shirt that had holes in it and looked like it had been washed a million times.  He wore plastic sandals and tacky sunglasses.  His beard was a bit longer than he normally wore it, scruffy and unkempt, and his hair was unbound at his shoulders.  Bucky squinted like he wasn’t certain this was real.  “Who in the world are you supposed to be?”

Thor looked confused and amused at once somehow.  “I believe I am someone called ‘The Dude’.  I was told this would be humorous.”

Bucky and Steve exchanged a look.  “Who?”

“Stark told you that?” Clint said, still doubled over and sweating.  Thor nodded, and Clint nodded, too, his lips pursed into an approving smile.  “Good call.”  He swatted Thor about the midsection as he pushed his way inside.  “Now get out of my way.  I’m either gonna throw up or pass out.”  He limped inside, heading straight for Steve’s couch.

Thor set the bowl full of candy aside, watching after Clint in concern and confusion.  “Has something befallen Barton?” he queried as Bucky and Steve led the kids inside.

“You mean besides acting like a five year-old?” Steve asked.  “He’s fine.”

Jane was there, dressed as a goddess of some sort (the irony of that wasn’t lost on him, that she was adorned in these flowing robes and golden splendor and royal beauty and Thor looked like some sort of slob who’d never worked a day in his life).  She was more than happy to take Joseph, who was still slumbering away, and Steve was more than happy to offload him for the moment.  Sam was there, too, dressed like a Ghostbuster (Steve had seen that one so he recognized the getup instantly), complete with a proton pack on his back (hopefully a fake one, though with Tony one never knew).  “We were about to send out a search party.  Did you guys get lost or something?”

“No,” all three of them quickly responded at once, sharing harried looks.  Even Clint did from where he was sprawled on the couch with his wife rolling her eyes at him and getting him a glass of water.

“Dinner’s almost ready!” Natasha called from the kitchen, and Steve could have thanked God for that.  He wasn’t really tired of course, but for some reason that venture had proven exhausting, and he was hungry for something other than sugar.

However, before he could make his way into the kitchen, there was a strange sound behind him.  Someone breathing heavily.  _Mechanically._   He recognized it immediately and rolled his eyes a little.  “Not so fast, Jedi,” said a muffled voice.

“Daddy!” James cried in fear.  “It’s Dark Vader!  Dark Vader!”  He’d been having trouble saying that for days.  “Look!”

Steve looked.  Sure enough, Darth Vader was behind him.  It was the most well-made costume Steve had ever seen.  Fancy effects.  High-quality fabric.  Plastic molded perfectly.  The works.  All of that meant, of course, only one person could be behind it.  The helmet’s face flipped up, just like Iron Man, and Steve was forced to wonder if Tony had installed JARVIS in there, too.  “No, James.  It’s just me!”

“Unca Tony!” James cried, dumping his candy all over as he threw himself at Tony.

Tony smiled and picked him up.  “Hey, squirt!  Didya get lots of candy?”

“Uh-huh!  And Daddy got lost.”

Steve flushed, grimacing, as Tony turned to look at him, a million and one jokes poised on his lips.  “Not true,” he declared forcefully before Tony could get started.  “Not at all true.”

“What did you do to Clint?” Bruce asked as he sipped a bottle of beer near the table full of hors d’oeuvres.  Just spotting the appetizing array of things made Steve’s mouth water and his stomach growl.  He pushed Bruce aside gently to get a plate.  Bruce grunted a laugh.

Bucky shook his head.  “Poisoned him.”  Clint flipped him off over the couch, which thankfully none of the kids saw.  “What are you, Bruce?”

Unsurprisingly, Bruce was dressed like he was always dressed.  He opened his coat, though.  He had a large piece of paper taped to his shirt with what looked like a bunch of chemical compounds handwritten all over it.  Percentages were attached.  It all appeared like it had been scribbled in the car on the way over.  “I’m a human being.  See?  This is the chemical composition of–”

Bucky waved his hand dismissively.  “Alright.  That’s it.  That’s the laziest.”

“You kidding, Bucky?  Do you have any idea how many PhDs were necessary to be able to write all this down?”  Bruce had a surprisingly snarky side (although Steve wasn’t sure how much of that was natural or a by-product of spending too much time with Stark).

Pepper came over with a plate of fresh fruit, dressed as a witch.  She looked as stunning and as well put together as ever with a black, shimmering gown, silk hat, and a cape.  Clint spied her from over the couch where he was still groaning.  “What, no Leia outfit to go with the theme?  Tony didn’t insist?”

“Not if he knows what’s good for him,” Pepper replied.  She came over and kissed James enthusiastically before doing the same to Lila and Cooper.  “Everyone looks amazing.”

Steve shook his head in confusion, coming closer to Tony with his heaping plate of food.  “I didn’t tell you we were doing _Star Wars._   How’d you–”

Tony grinned.  “Well, I have my ways of finding things out.  And I thought a young Padawan could use a true opponent to test his skills,” Tony replied.  He set James down and pulled his plastic lightsaber from his belt.  The plastic sword came out with a bunch of fake sound effects.  Tony put the helmet back down.  “Come with me to the Dark Side.”

“Daddy!  Daddy!  Fight!”  James jumped up and down excitedly, apparently having found a second wind.  He fumbled for his own lightsaber, and Bucky was there to help him get it out.  He ran at Tony, swinging and hacking.

“Take it outside!” Natasha hollered from the kitchen.  “And dinner’s going to be ready in a minute, so make it quick!”

“Come with me to the outside,” Tony said again, low and evil, and the two of them ran like kids (well, James was a kid – Tony was just ridiculous) to the spacious backyard of their new house.  Plastic light sabers were swinging wildly as they started to play fight.  Steve followed to watch from the patio, enjoying a plate of nachos and a bottle of beer as the party went into full swing behind him.  Tony was talking in his Darth Vader voice (how he could move as fast as he was with all that stuff on him, Steve didn’t know).  “Most impressive, young Jedi.  The Force is strong with you.”

James couldn’t have been more excited.  He ran around like crazy, whacking at Tony with the plastic lightsaber, laughing.  Eventually he came over and dragged his father into the fray.  “Come on, Daddy!  You try!”

Steve grimaced.  “It’s alright, James.  I don’t need to–”

“You, Jedi,” Tony said, lifting his lightsaber to point it at Steve.  He sounded somewhat winded, though he was doing an admirable job of hiding it.  “Do you fear the power of the Dark Side?  It is not good to appear weak in front of your apprentice.”

Steve rolled his eyes.  “It’s not, huh.”

“No.  Should you not demonstrate to your Padawan the ways of fighting with a lightsaber?”

“No.”

“Yes.  Get over here.”

Steve stood there a moment, his eyes going between Tony and James (the latter watching him with so much anticipation, and the former more ridiculous by the second), trying to find a way to extricate himself before he ended up cosplaying (or larping?  What was that?  Was there a difference?) in his backyard.  But it was too late.  There was no denying James when was looking at him like that, especially not on Halloween.  He sighed in submission.  “Alright.”  He set his plate and bottle of beer down and pulled his own plastic lightsaber.  The blade extended in sections and glowed light blue in the darkness.  He tested the weight of it in his hands.  “You that eager to lose, Darth?”

“I prefer ‘my Lord’ .  And I could ask the same of you, Jedi Knight,” Tony responded.  The rivalry between Tony and Steve had been long settled ( _long_ settled), but it still reared its head every now and then over things like video games.  And sports.  And apparently whacking together plastic toys on Halloween in front of James (ugh, and everyone else, Steve noted, as most of the party-goers came outside with their plates and drinks to watch).  Now he _had_ to win.  This wasn’t just about role-playing for James anymore.  There was _ego_ involved, and his had already taken a beating tonight.  “Come on.  Come to the Dark Side!”

Steve charged.  Of course, he held back.  Without Iron Man, he could beat Tony in a fight with both hands tied behind his back.  However, he didn’t want to break one or both swords before they even got started, so he tempered his swing greatly as it clacked together with Tony’s.  Tony’s ludicrous breathing sounds stayed nice and even (obviously a recording of some sort because Steve could hear his actual breathing under the helmet, rapid and shallow with effort).  They fought for a few minutes, fast swipes and jabs, stabs and counters and feints.  Steve had to admit that Tony was decent at this, not a challenge, really, but enough that Steve had something with which to work to make this a good show for James.  James was clapping and cheering.  He grinned up at Bucky.  “Go, Daddy!  Go!”

“Come on, Cap!” Clint yelled.  “Kick his butt!”

“I fail to understand the merits of sparring with lighted weapons,” Thor said.  “Your opponent can see you far too easily.”

“Just go with it, Thor,” Sam replied.  “It’s an epic battle of good versus evil.”

“Ah.  Which is which?”

“Watch out, Steve!” Bruce yelled.  “He’s probably got more weapons stuffed up in his suit somewhere!”

Tony practically cackled, and as if on cue, the second lightsaber came out.  “That’s cheating,” Steve sputtered.  “And Darth Vader never fought with two.”

“Until now!”  He charged, both blades slashing at Steve, and Steve made a show of tripping and going down on his back.  He expected Tony to stab at him, for him to have to make some last second daring move to save himself and defeat evil, but as it turned out, someone else already had that in hand.  A blur of red, white, and blue landed in front of him, and Tony’s lightsabers hit something with a dull clank.  He flipped his helmet up again.  “Okay, that’s totally not fair.”

Natasha stood there, dressed in all of Captain America’s finery.  It was almost an exact replica of the suit Phil Coulson had designed, skin-tight with the red and white stripes down the midriff and the star over the sternum, but it had been specially made for her (boy, was it _ever_ made for her).  She was stunning in it, the blue contrasting with the deep red waves of her hair, and she lowered Steve’s shield, Steve’s _actual_ shield, from where she’d blocked the “killing” blows.  “It’s fair.  This is my house.”  She looked down at her husband where he lay on the cold ground practically beneath her.  “And I said before: _dinner’s ready._ ”

There was a moment of awed silence.  “Wow, Mommy’s _awesome_ ,” James breathed, pulling on Bucky’s hand.

“Yes, she is,” Natasha answered, turning to smile sweetly at her son.  “Go inside and eat.  It’s getting cold.”

The group seemed fairly stunned into submission.  Then Bucky laughed, and Clint joined in.  Thor clasped Sam’s shoulder, made a happy comment about being hungry enough to devour an entire bilgesnipe (and Sam winced in revulsion), before leading both him and Jane inside.  “When I said more weapons, Tony, _that_ was all you could come up with?” Bruce said in disappointment.  He shook his head in mock disgust.  “Geez.”

Natasha laughed.  She reached down a gloved hand to help Steve up.  She held his gaze, so _proud_ of herself.  “Like my costume?”

“Uh…  _Yeah_.”

“Still don’t want to ever see another Captain America costume again?”

“Um… _No._ ”  He couldn’t get over how _amazing_ she looked.  “Changin’ my mind about that.”

She expertly spun his shield before sliding it onto her back.  “Well, unlike some other Captain Americas, I’ve got the real thing at home to practice with.”  She cocked an eyebrow, coy and so ridiculously confident (and beautiful – and so, so beautiful).  “But we can talk about that _later_.”

“Please?”

She laughed again, light and airy.  “Happy Halloween.  Now come eat.”  She pecked his lips and reached down to pick James up, James who was going on and on about how cool she was and where she’d learned to move that fast and how Captain America can beat Darth Vader and…  Their voices faded into the warm and welcoming house.

“She was talking about your shield, you know,” Tony said, drawing Steve’s attention as he came to stand beside him.

Steve’s brain still wasn’t quite working.  “Huh?”

“She has your shield to practice with.  Not, well, _you know_.”

“Mind out of the gutter, Stark.”

“Yours went there first, Rogers.”

They gathered up their lightsabers.  Tony took the helmet off, revealing he was sweating up a storm, but he was smiling and looking up at the moon.  They stood in a companionable silence for a bit.  Then Steve sighed, wrapping an arm around Tony’s shoulders.  “I won.”

“No way.  You cheated.”

“She’s with me.  Therefore, I won.”

“You know what?  She makes a better Captain America than you do.  I think we should switch up the Avengers roster a bit.  Since I’m second in command, I can do that sort of thing.”

“Not true.”

“Yes true.  And I think she can play you for a while, and you can play her.  I can probably make you an _amazing_ Black Widow suit that’ll really flatter your figure–”

“Shut it.”

Tony grinned like mad, shoving Steve slightly only for Steve to shove him right back, and together they headed inside to enjoy the party.


	38. A Dream Come True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Extra special thanks to the lovely [vbprodz](http://vbproz.tumbr.com) for the inspiration! She's responsible for this one. I only hope I do the picture some justice. And you need to look at the artwork after reading the story ;-).

“A good cause,” Steve grumbled unhappily.  “Right.”

Pepper smiled, pouring herself a cup of coffee.  The mission last night had had the team coming back late and crashing at Stark Tower, everyone thankfully healthy but completely exhausted.  Steve and Natasha had actually slept in (well, Steve had slept in, which was practically unheard of, and Natasha had gladly taken advantage of that).  They’d stumbled out of their suite not long ago in search of breakfast only to find Pepper waiting for them in their kitchen with an array of food.  Steve had immediately sensed something was up, sharing suspicious looks with Natasha as he scrubbed the sleep from his eyes and slumped into a chair at the breakfast table.  And he’d been right.  “It _is_ for a good cause,” Pepper promised.  “You wouldn’t believe the amount of money the magazine is offering–”

“No,” Steve said firmly.  “We’re not doing this.  Absolutely not.  I don’t care how much they’re willing to pay.”  Then he paused, like he realized he was maybe overstepping his bounds.  He glanced at his wife.  “Right, Nat?”

For her own part, Natasha leaned against the counter of the island in the kitchen, blowing gently on her cup of coffee so she could hide her own grin.  Steve was delicious like this.  Hair mussed from sleep.  A little bleary-eyed, blinking tiredly with thick lashes.  Dressed in rumpled pajama pants and an equally rumpled undershirt.  A day’s worth of dark stubble coating his jaw and framing his mouth (she’d never realized before getting together with Captain America how fast his hair grew thanks to the serum, which meant shaving more, which, she had also discovered, he didn’t like doing).  With his hackles somewhat raised like they were, he was a strange combination of devastatingly handsome and adorably flustered.  And he was hers.  All hers.  The weight of the rings on her finger was still so new, so noticeable.  So was the glint of his as he reached for his breakfast plate.  She’d never fathomed feeling the way she did now, never believed she could have something like this.  Being his wife was a dream come true, a dream she’d never even known how much she’d wanted.  She loved Steve more than she thought possible.  They’d barely been married a two weeks, and she never, _ever_ wanted to go back to who she had been before.

However, she was still Black Widow.  And Black Widow liked seeing men squirm just a little, particularly _her_ man.  “It’s for charity,” she reminded smartly.

Pepper nodded.  “It is.  This is a _huge_ opportunity.  With the money the Foundation is making from this, we won’t need to worry about donations for a year, maybe more.”

Steve grunted, burying himself into his breakfast.  “That’s nice,” he groused, a forkful of eggs mostly in his mouth.

“The Foundation is the biggest benefactor to a dozen different causes, _good_ causes.”

“I know.  I was at the Gala, remember?”  Of course they all remembered.  That was where all of this had started.  “But it doesn’t matter.  If they need money, I’ll donate.  I’ll work for free.  Take my savings.  There.  Solved.”

Pepper smiled, clearly trying not to ruffle his feathers more by being amused.  “It’s millions and millions of dollars, Steve.”

Steve blanched.  “ _People_ magazine spent _millions_ of dollars for pictures of us together?”

Pepper shared a look with Natasha.  Again, she only cocked an eyebrow in reply.  Ever since the world had gotten its first prominent glance of Captain America and Black Widow together at the Maria Stark Foundation Gala six months ago, they’d been the darlings of the media.  Neither Steve nor Natasha was at all comfortable with the attention they received.  They were private types, coveting their anonymity where they could get it.  Pepper had been handling the team’s PR since SHIELD had gone down, and while she was _amazing_ at it (she had to be to keep up with the train wreck that was Tony’s public image for as long as she had), even she hadn’t been able to control the rumors that Captain America and Black Widow were married.  “Well, they do want all of you.  All the rest of the team has already done it, even Bruce.  Do you have _any_ idea how hard it was to convince him?”

“Then they can be satisfied with that,” Steve declared.

Pepper pressed her lips together thinly.  “But they don’t want _any_ of it unless they can get some shots of you and Natasha together.  And unless they can be the ones to announce that you guys are married.”

Steve looked at wife again, now totally flummoxed.  His mouth hung limply open, his eyes widening with horror.  “You’re not serious.”

Pepper nodded.  Natasha admired a lot about her, not the least of which being that Pepper was about as good as a manipulator as she was.  Natasha did it with flirting, with her eyes and her hands and her body (and she knew how to do it better than anyone).  Pepper, on the other hand, did it with words, calm coaxing when necessary or cold logic when a harder approach was required.  She knew when to push, when to back off, when to use kid gloves or when to throw said gloves right out the window.  She was a professional at making intransigent men do _exactly_ what she needed.  “Don’t worry.  No one knows outside the higher-ups.  And everyone involved has already signed NDAs.”

“You told them?”

“Steve, they figured it out,” Pepper softly said.  “They’re the ones who contacted me.  After the Gala, rumors were flying.  And the paparazzi must have been tailing you guys last week when you came back from your honeymoon.  Somebody got blurry shots of you two together and, well…”  She glanced at Steve’s hand.  “The ring was pretty noticeable.”  Steve flushed, balling his left hand into a fist and hiding it under the table.  _Real mature.  And too late._ Pepper sighed.  “The _whole industry_ has been clamoring for an official shot of you two together.  I don’t think you have any idea what an amazing story you two have, what an incredible couple you make.”

“I do have an idea,” Steve retorted.  “That’s why I asked her to marry me.”

“And no one saw it, Steve, besides us.”  He was practically prickling.  She was quick to realize that and quicker still to diffuse it gently.  “Which is fine, of course, and completely understandable.  But…  Frankly, this is the story of the year, far and away, maybe even of the last few years since the Avengers formed, and the magazine called and threw money at me and I couldn’t turn it down.  And, like I said, this is going to allow the Foundation to help a lot of people.  _A lot_ of people.  Kids and the homeless and the terminally ill.  That’s the point, right?  The Avengers save people on the battlefield, but we can help in so many other places as well.”  Pepper set her cup down.  Natasha didn’t miss her little smile as Steve’s eyes went impossibly wider.  The hook was in.  “But if you’re not comfortable with this, it’s alright.  I can call it off.  I’m sure everyone will understand.”  And pulling in the line…  “I already contacted the Director of the Foundation, and they were beside themselves with joy and gratitude that you’d sacrifice your privacy for their sake, but they can table their plans until next year.  It’s fine.” 

 _Sinker._ Steve didn’t seem to know he was being played.  Pepper very clearly had no intention of calling it off.  She was also a master of the guilt trip, and Natasha could do nothing other than sit back and watch her work.  Steve shook his head.  “I–”

“No, it’s fine, Steve,” Pepper assured again.  “Really.  Enjoy your breakfast.”

She made to walk away, and Natasha could practically count it down in her head.  _Three…_   Steve grimaced, reluctant shame twisting his face.  _Two…_   He set his fork down and pushed his plate away.  _And one._   “Pepper, wait.  Alright.  You know what?  If it’s okay with Nat, then it’s okay with me.”  He sighed, looking at his wife.  “Is it okay with you?”

Natasha walked over to the table, setting her hands on his shoulders.  Truth be told, she was a little reticent about announcing their marriage like this.  But ever since their small, quiet wedding, she’d felt light.  Airy.  Confident in a way she’d never been before.  She was happy, and for the first time in her life, she wanted the world to know something about her beyond being an assassin.  Beyond being an Avenger or a SHIELD agent or Black Widow.  She wanted the world to see _who_ she was.  What was making her feel this way.  _Who_ had changed her.  “It’s fine with me,” she promised, leaning down to kiss him.

Steve pulled away like she’d turned into some sort of crazy person.  “Great!” Pepper said cheerily, beaming.  She continued on her way toward the doors of their suite.  “I’ll let them know we can do this.  They told me they can be ready in an hour.”

Steve wrenched around in his chair to shout after her.  “An hour?  You mean today?  I – wait, that’s not – hey!”  But Pepper was already gone.  Steve turned to Natasha.  He looked frustrated and mortified all at once.  “Did you know about this?  I don’t think Pepper would have told these people it was okay without getting your say-so.”

She could lie, of course, but what was the point?  Instead, she rolled herself over his lap, forcing him to push back from the table.  “I think you were just ambushed,” she murmured into his lips.

He groaned, surprised.  “That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair,” she whispered, playing nipping along his jaw.  She swept her hands up his chest, exploring the broad expanse of muscles there.  Sure, she’d done this _a lot_ of times now, but it never got any less amazing.

Steve groaned again, his hands settling to her waist.  “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”  She kissed him hard, but that didn’t deter him.  “Because this doesn’t sound like you.  This does not sound like the woman I had to beg on my hands and knees to go with me to the Gala because she, and I quote, would rather be caught dead than anyone finding out she’s someone’s–”  He gave an exaggerated, aghast gasp.  “– _girlfriend_.  The horror.”

“That was the old me.”

“Right.  Well, the old me and the new me aren’t too thrilled about this.”

“You do realize #MrandMrsAmerica has been trending for a whole week on Twitter?”

He obviously had not realized that (and why would he? Steve still wasn’t exactly in tune with modern pop culture or social media).  His eyes went wide again and the color drained from his face a bit.  She cupped his jaw, tipping his head back a little, and he sighed, long-suffering.  “Are you really sure?  Really?  Can’t undo it.”

He was being serious.  So she honestly thought about it again for a moment.  Then she nodded.  She was sure.  But she wasn’t bold enough to tell him why, how happy she was about their marriage, so she grinned and rolled her hips onto his.  “A good cause, right?”

He groaned.  “Alright,” he whispered.  “But you owe me.”

“Yes, I do.  And I’ll repay you.”

“Later,” he huskily declared, “because I need to go get ready if this thing is happening in an hour.”

She ran her hands through the thickness of his hair, mussing it more, kissing him harder.  “We are getting ready.”

“I need to take a shower,” he protested.  “And shave.”

“No.  And definitely no.”

“Huh?  What kind of photoshoot is this?”  She leaned back to smile coyly.  His eyes widened in dawning realization.  “Oh, no.  No, no, no.”

“Yes,” she purred into his throat.

_“No.”_

Captain America’s orders were absolute on the battlefield, but she was rapidly discovering that pretty much everywhere else, her word was law.  Thus, an hour later, a very flustered Steve Rogers was walking into the room Pepper had set up for the photoshoot.  He looked… horrified, like a prisoner being hauled in front of a firing squad.  There were already a slew of people waiting for them.  Lighting specialists.  Photographers.  Make-up artists.  Digital artists.  The works.  Natasha had never seen so many assistants.  A simple, brown backdrop had been hung with a stool perched upon it.  Assistants were adjusting the lights they’d positioned above and around the area.  Everywhere the crew was preparing for their subjects.

One man in particular came up, short, impeccably dressed, and grinning almost giddily.  “Captain Rogers, Ms. Romanoff, I can’t tell you what a _thrill_ this is.  When I heard Ms. Potts had convinced you to participate yesterday, my spirits just soared.  This really wasn’t going to work without you.”  Steve gave Natasha a withering look.  She smiled prettily.  “If you’ll just come over here, we’ll get you all set up.”  He directed each of them to chairs that had been set in front of a mobile workstation loaded with makeup.

Steve winced, shaking his head.  “This isn’t necessary, is it?”

The little man seemed flabbergasted at the mere thought of taking a picture that hadn’t been completely staged to perfection.  “Oh, trust me, Captain.  It very much is.  If you’ll just sit right here, Janelle will take care of you.”  Slowly, _warily_ , Steve sat, one twitch of his impressive muscles at a time.  He was perched on the absolute edge of the chair, coiled tight like a spring ready to launch.  The photographer was pleased to have Steve’s butt in the seat all the same, and he boldly patted his shoulder.  Then he turned to the lead make-up artist and murmured, “Janelle, make sure you cover up those bruises.  And I want a throbbing vein of male power.  I want smoldering sex god.”

Obviously he didn’t know about super soldier hearing.  _“What?”_ Steve cried.  He was up and out of the chair before they could stop him.  “No, no.  Wait.  I’m Captain America!  I’m not… _that._ ”

It never ceased to amaze Natasha just how oblivious he was to how _good_ he looked.  It went well beyond handsome.  He was spectacularly perfect.  What was it that dork in the Apple store had called him last year?  Right.  A _specimen_.  However, he still saw himself as small, skinny Steve Rogers who couldn’t get a girl to look his way twice if his life depended on it.  She knew that was part of his charm, his sweet innocence.  And she wasn’t the only one.  “Captain, do you have any idea what you look like?  The both of you?  _Together?_   The things I could do with you!  I’ve been a photographer for twenty years, and I’ve never handled better photogenic stock.”

“That’s nice.”

“Please, just hear me out.  I know things are different now than they were in your time–”

Steve scowled.  “I’ve been in _this_ time for more than three years now, sir.  I know how things are.”

The man pursed his lips like a fish, like he was trying to figure out how to approach this.  He went with blunt.  “Wholesomeness is a thing of the past.  Clean-cut is history.  Demure?  Never.”

“We had pin-ups back then, you know,” Steve reminded coldly.

“Then _you_ know.  Captain America is a symbol of valor and integrity, of course, and he should be.  But he could be _more._   Do you have any idea what you mean to the women of this nation?  I could have them eating out of your palm.”

Steve blushed hotter than the sun.  He looked helplessly at Natasha.  “I’m married.  I thought this was about that!”

“It is!  It is.  But it’s also about sexy, about sultry.  Fantasy.  This is about men and women alike looking at this picture and wanting what they can’t have.  This is about Captain America and Black Widow _together._ ”

“Uh…”

“My vision is an image of the Avengers laid bare.  One that’s primal, exposed.  Visceral.  _Raw._ An image of the Avengers as men–”  He darted a look at Natasha.  “–and women with desires and passions.  Do you follow?”

Steve sputtered uselessly for a moment, flustered beyond words.  Then he folded his arms across his chest obstinately.  “I follow, but I can’t do this.  Kids look up to me!”

Most other people would be completely intimated by the rippling muscles of his back and chest and the size of his biceps, but not this mouse of a man, apparently.  Then again, they were in _his_ territory, and even an irate Avenger was no match for an artist after the perfect shot.  “I’m thinking about kids, too, Captain.  The unobtainable sells magazines, and the more magazines we sell, the more money we make.  The more money we make, the more can be donated to your charity.” 

Steve very visibly ground his teeth together.  It was embarrassing how he let himself be played sometimes.  Natasha didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or tuck him away to keep him pure (or keep him for herself to debauch – probably the latter).  The man sighed.  “It’s all fake.  It doesn’t say anything about you as a person.  It’s routine, really.  And, like I said, it’s a fantasy.  A dream.  This is a side of Captain America _nobody_ sees.”  _Not quite,_ Natasha thought smugly.  “That’s what I want to give the world.  Back during your day, didn’t you have women fawning over you?  You were an actor, were you not?”

“Not really?” Steve stammered, and Natasha had to agree.  She’d seen the old Captain America reels.  They were terrible.  “I mean, yeah, I acted, but–”

“How is this any different?”

“We were at war!”

“Then consider this magazine to be a war bond, and you’re selling them to the masses.”  Now Steve was getting positively steamrolled.  “Please.  I know what I’m doing.  I know how to make something fabulous.  Just trust me.  Smoldering, sex god is a _very_ good look on you.”

Steve’s mouth was hanging open again.  Helplessly he glanced at Natasha.  She smiled, cocking an appraising eyebrow, enjoying this probably more than she should have.  “Don’t look at me, babe.  You expect me to argue with that?”

And that was that.  Steve had no one in his corner, no one to protect him (not even his wife, who was solely in this for herself and not the least bit upset about that).  He slumped and sank back into the chair obediently.  The photographer clapped excitedly.  “Wonderful, Captain.  Let’s do this.”

Janelle and her team went to work.  Natasha sat on the other side of the lighted mirror with her own team of makeup artists, and they, too, started glamorizing her, making her “stunning” and “ravishing” and “the perfect complement to his power”.  She heard Janelle ask Steve to take off his shirt, and she could practically feel him hesitating.  But he did it.  “How do you feel about a tattoo?”

Natasha had to fight off her smile in order to keep her face relaxed as one of the people worked on her lips.  “Uh…” Steve said.  “They don’t take to me.  Serum.”

“We’ll paint it on.  It’ll look very realistic.”

“Uh, okay.  I guess.”

“And let’s darken you up a little, alright?”

“Do I have a choice?”

 _Not really._ It went on for a while, the whole team of people laboring in a flurry to make the photographer’s vision a reality.  It was so hard to sit still.  Maybe she acted cool and confident about this, but the truth was, she was anxious and excited.  Her face across the world, across the internet, like _this._   Hers with the rest of the team’s like this.  Hers with Steve’s.  _Official._ She couldn’t see Steve, and he couldn’t see her, and that only heightened her nervousness.  She didn’t show it, of course, but her stomach was tied in knots and she could hardly stand to wait another second.

Finally the hair and makeup people were done.  She’d worn expensive makeup before on undercover ops but not like this.  She looked at her reflection, the light pink of her lips and the smoky, sultriness of her eyes, the smooth, flawlessness of her skin, and she almost didn’t recognize herself.  Her hair was thick and wavy, rusty reds and oranges against the olive tone of her neck and shoulders where it tumbled down.  She was almost shocked enough to want to call this off, because it didn’t quite feel like her.  But that was the point, right?  Fantasy.  She could be a _very_ good actress.  And she wanted the world to know that Black Widow owned Captain America.

This would send a pretty unambiguous message.

They gave her a low cut, strapless bra to wear, and she changed behind a couple of panels.  Then they led her to the lighted area where Steve was sitting on the stool and waiting.  _Oh, my God._ Sultry, smoldering, super _sex god._   His unshaven face.  Miles and miles of perfect skin.  The exquisite proportion of his broad shoulders to his narrow hips upon which his jeans were hanging loose.  Lean muscles that belied just how strong he was.  Sinewy hands and fingers, long and rough with calluses.  Only he looked like he wanted to run and hide, fidgeting in nervousness with how exposed he was in only his jeans.  When he caught sight of her, though, he quieted.  The horror faded from his face, replaced with a look she knew he gave her and only her.  Lust in his eyes.  The bright blue was overcome by pupils blown wide with attraction, and her lips quirked in a grin.

“Alright,” the photographer said, glancing around at his subjects and his many assistants.  Lights were adjusted.  Computers and cameras were readied.  “Captain, why don’t you put your arms around Ms. Romanoff–”

“Mrs. Rogers,” Natasha softly corrected, smiling with quiet but fierce devotion.  Never once had she looked away from Steve, and never once had he looked from her.

She could feel the photographer smiling in satisfaction.  The air between the couple was positively charged, thrumming with power and excitement, with arousal and love.  “Put your arms around her.  Okay.  That’s great.  Yeah, between his legs there.  Right up against his chest.  Cap, hand on her back.  Arms around his neck there.”  The makeup people came back, wiping at Steve’s face slightly, positioning Natasha’s hair.  “Alright.  Great.  But…”  The man’s one word made everyone stop like they’d been frozen.  “Let’s have the dog tags.”

Steve’s eyes went wide.  They weren’t his real dog tags, of course; those were safe at home in Natasha’s jewelry box.  But they were a pretty convincing replica, down to his name being printed on them.  “That okay with you, Captain?” the photographer asked.

Steve breathed out a long sigh, tipping his head a little.  “In for a penny,” he muttered, and the makeup person slid them around his neck.  They positioned them, crushed between them enough that they couldn’t be seen exactly but not so much that you couldn’t tell what they were.  Fake natural.

“Alright, that’s it.  And move your hand a little.  There.  _There._   That is _amazing._ ”  Everyone went back to their positions.  “Now,” the man said, beaming in excitement, “give me sexy.  Give me hungry.  Give me _possessive._ Nobody is _ever_ going to come between you, right?”

_Never._

The cameras snapped the pictures.

A couple weeks later, the magazine was published.  Steve was at home, sprawled on the couch with a book in sweats (and again unshaven and disheveled) when Natasha came in with one, straight off the press.  She practically sat on top of him, beaming.  “Look what I got…”

He spotted it, the cover which was entirely filled with the Avengers logo and boldly promising “The Avengers as you’ve never seen them before” and “Their secrets laid bare” and “All proceeds to the Maria Stark Foundation”.  “Oh, God…” he moaned in embarrassment, covering his reddening face with his book.  His moan was muffled.  “I can’t.  Just kill me.  _Please._ ”

“It’s fine,” she promised, pulling the book away and setting it on the coffee table.  “Come on.  Oh!  Wow.  Look at Clint.”  Clint who had no shirt on, who was glaring hungrily at the camera.  In fact, they all were, and _none_ of them had shirts on.  Thor, who put pretty much every man on earth (well, except hers) to shame.  Hair unbound and eyes narrowed in a seductive stare, he was unbridled and…  _Wow._   And Tony, artfully disheveled, scars on his chest openly on display for all to see, his eyes deep with intelligence and determination.  Even Bruce, exposed and vulnerable but _okay_ with it.

“I can’t believe Bruce actually agreed to this,” Steve mused, shaking his head in surprise.  “Or Clint.  Or…  Well, Bruce and Clint.”  He shook his head.  “At least I don’t feel quite so much like my mother is rolling over in her grave.”

“Dramatic, much?” Natasha teased, looking over the photospread and the story that had been written about each Avenger.

Steve balked a little.  “It’s not decent for a man to be seen like this by anyone other than his wife.”

Natasha’s interest cooled instantly.  She’d had fun with this, and it had been more than a little entertaining (and arousing) to watch him squirm, but…  “Steve, I…  I didn’t mean to push you into it.  I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, his disapproval disappearing at seeing her regret.  “You did push.  A little.”  He leaned up, kissing her gently.  “But that’s okay.  I like it when you push me.  I like it when you challenge me to be different and better.  That’s what makes us an incredible couple.”  He smiled sweetly, sincerely, and everything inside her soared because he was right.  If he hadn’t pushed her before to attend the gala, to boldly be the woman he loved, to state to everyone that they were together…  Well, he’d done nothing but guide her gently to this point since he’d met her.  They both had guided _each other_.  He kissed her again, soothing away the last of her doubts.  “Besides, it was for a good cause, right?  It’d be wrong of me to keep all my amazing photogenic stock to myself when I can help sick kids and homeless people.  And sultry sells or so I have been told.”  He did a horrible impression of the photographer.  “It’s a _fantasy_ , Captain _._ Raw and visceral.  Meant to inspire people to buy magazines to obtain the unobtainable.  Like war bonds, sold by a sex god.”

She laughed, swatting him across the chest with the magazine.  “Oh, my God.”

He grinned.  “And I guess it was kinda fun.”  She waggled her eyebrows, and he sighed in exasperation.  “I guess.  Kinda.  A little bit.  Even if I die of embarrassment.”

“Well, get used to that, because the whole world is about to get a load of _this_.”  She turned the page and the pictures of _them_ were on full display.  The biggest was the first one that had been taken, with their arms around each other.  It had been processed, of course, darkened to sexy shadows and rich tones and splashes of more vibrant color in her lips and hair and in his eyes, but it was _them_.  Undeniably so.  She’d never seen anything like it.  Printed across the page in white font it read: “A dream come true”.  There were more lines of text.  “The Captain and His Wife: the newly married couple leads the Avengers while staying true to each other”.  It went on and on like that, about the life they’d never thought they’d have, the love they’d found in each other, _everything_ they were building _together._

Steve’s eyes went wide and his mouth fell open again.  Now he was flushed but with something else entirely.  “Uh…  Wow.”

Admittedly, she was rather taken aback, too.  It was _right there._   Not just the picture, which _was_ exactly what the photographer had promised: raw and visceral and so very _powerful_ , but everything Pepper had allowed the magazine to print.  The truth about them.  It was out there, and there was no taking it back.  And that was frightening.

More than that, though, it was empowering.  Amazing.  Exhilarating.  _A dream come true._   “Yeah,” she whispered.

“You look…”  Steve swallowed, losing his words.

He didn’t need them.  “Yeah.  So do you.”  She was staring at the picture when his palm cupped her chin and turned her head to look at him.  He kissed her and kissed her until she was breathless, trembling, and wanting, and the magazine fluttered to the floor where it was completely forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the wonderful artwork that inspired this chapter! Again, many thanks to [vbprodz](http://vbprodz.tumblr.com)!


	39. Veterans Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Extra special thanks today to all of the service men and women who have fought and continue to fight for our freedoms! We can never repay you for all you have done for us.

Bucky didn’t care much for Veterans Day.

The reason was simple and complex all at once.  As a kid he hadn’t minded attention, had even enjoyed it.  Steve’s mother had always called him a looker and a charmer, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that had been true.  He’d been an excellent student, a stellar athlete, popular with the girls, loved by his family and friends.  He’d had everything going for him, which made the dichotomy between him and his best friend all the much more striking.  Everyone had seen Steve with Bucky and thought Bucky was doing him a favor, elevating him, and even though Bucky had known that wasn’t true, nothing he said or did ever dissuaded everyone from thinking he was doing poor Steve Rogers a favor by being his pal.  After a while, he’d stopped trying, particularly when Steve had told him it was okay.  Besides, just a tiny part of him had been glad that people thought so highly of him.

Then the war had happened.  He’d enlisted, same as so many other young men, to do his duty for his country.  Fight Nazis.  Protect people.  But it hadn’t occurred to him then just how much it would cost him.  It hadn’t occurred to any of them.  This wasn’t to say he regretted serving in the army.  However, the uniform didn’t hold the same meaning to him now as it once had, as it had those few months in the spring and summer of 1943 when he’d proudly worn it before joining the front lines in Europe.  It garnered attention he didn’t care to have.  It reminded him of things on which he didn’t care to dwell.  It had symbolism to it that no longer applied.  He was proud to have been a soldier, to still be a soldier in a sense, but it didn’t mean the same thing it once did, and while he was glad the nation took this day to honor the men and women who’d fought and served, the adulation, respect, and reverence made him really uncomfortable.

So that was the simple reason, but it fed into the more complex reason.  And the simple reason he could deal with.  He knew Steve felt the same about it all.  Steve appreciated Veterans Day, participated in everything he was asked to, dutifully speaking or appearing as ordered or requested.  As Captain America, he was probably among the more famous (if not _the_ most famous) veterans alive today.  Furthermore, he and Bucky were some of a dwindling number of surviving World War II vets (of course, they were fairly unique when it came to why).  Steve’s presence was vitally important to the VA, to the nation at large.  Veterans Day was a day for honoring heroes, and there was no greater hero than Captain America.  He was a symbol to the nation, a legend, a sentinel for liberty and a warrior for the innocent.  He was what they all aspired to be as a soldier, as a leader, as a father and husband and citizen.  He was _the_ hero.

And Bucky might be many things but a hero was not one of them.

“They pin any more medals on you and you’re gonna fall over, serum or no,” he quipped as Steve straightened his uniform jacket.  He sat in one of the plush hotel room chairs, watching as Steve rushed around like a chicken with his head cut off.  James sat on Bucky’s lap, holding his dad’s hat.  The six year-old was observing the hullabaloo with a smile on his face.  Steve swore softly, looking around quickly.  He lifted the duvet that was hanging half off the bed.  Bucky sighed.  “What are you looking for?”

“Shoes,” Steve replied, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed.  He crouched and found them in their box.  It had obviously been kicked under the bed during all the ruckus this morning.  They’d flown down to DC last night, unable to get away from New York any sooner due to the fact that Natasha had been away on a mission for SHIELD.  Steve had been asked (more like cajoled) by Sam at the last second to attend the Veterans Day parade in Washington, DC and then the ceremony at Arlington.  The VA had rushed to arrange some sort of “Captain America” section of the event once they’d learned Steve would attend, but Steve had refused, claiming he’d march alongside everyone else.  In fact, he’d insisted on no special treatment whatsoever, and Sam had dutifully relayed that to the higher-ups.  That was Steve, through and through.

It was also Steve through and through to be insisting that Bucky participate, and they’d been not quite fighting about it all morning.  The family had gotten in so late last night that they’d been in a chaotic state of complete disarray when Bucky had arrived at their hotel suite an hour or so ago.  Steve had asked him to be on hand to help Natasha with the boys in case he couldn’t.  Natasha was the most capable woman Bucky had ever seen, so he called nonsense on that excuse.  Still, he’d come anyway because Steve was the most stubborn jerk in existence so there was no way he’d be able to manufacture a reason good enough to get out of it.  So he was here, sitting around uncomfortably and doing nothing as Steve flustered his way through getting dressed.  Joseph was in the adjoining room of the suite with Natasha.  She was looking over the speech Steve had likely written at the last minute.  He’d always been terrible about getting his work done on time when they’d been kids.  And he’d been terribly disorganized, too, something of a slob when it really came down to it.  Even with Natasha practically dressing him now, he was still an uncoordinated mess.  And he was still so blind.  He didn’t see the obvious, couldn’t accept what he didn’t like, what he perceived as injustice.  He wouldn’t know the truth if it came up and smacked him.

But he’d found his shoes at least.  He managed to get them on without rumpling his dress blues too much.  “Not a fan of the new service uniform,” he grumbled, messing with his tie again. “Were the old ones this stiff?  I don’t remember.”

“Yes,” Bucky said firmly, though he had no frame of reference.  He didn’t know if this was an honest question or if Steve was trying to be clever, coaxing him into actually trying on the new uniform to either confirm or deny.  He hadn’t worn an army uniform since 1945, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Steve grunted.  “I guess I’ve worn worse.”

“Yeah, the spangly outfit was pretty bad.”  Steve shot him an annoyed glance.  “What?  I’ve seen pictures.”

Steve was displeased.  Abruptly he went bold.  “Would be nice not having to go out there by myself.”

Bucky clenched his teeth slightly.  “Yeah, it would be, wouldn’t it?”  Steve gave him a sharp look.  He always loved it when Steve dispensed with his own garbage and just went for the kill.  Steve was many things, but subtle was not one of them.  Bucky sighed, long-suffering.  “You’ve done stuff like this before plenty of times.”

“Not quite as big as this.”

Bucky supposed that was true.  Speaking in the nation’s capital in front of thousands of veterans and active service personnel was a fairly huge deal.  But he wasn’t going to fold that easily.  “You’ll be fine.  That’s why they called you the Man with the Plan, right?  Pretend you’re selling war bonds.”

“Whatever happened to the end of the line?”

Shame on Steve for using that against him.  He did it with a smile, of course, like he knew that was a low blow, a cheap trick, but he was employing it anyway because Steve Rogers wasn’t above being a sneaky punk to get what he wanted or to do what he thought was best.  Bucky knew that, and he _knew_ Steve was trying to help, but he glared all the same because that wasn’t fair.  “Right.  Nice.”

Steve frowned, flushing a little in embarrassment.  “Come on, Buck.  Do this with me.”

James hopped down from Bucky’s lap and went over to his father.  He held up Steve’s hat.  “Do what, Daddy?  How come you’re wearing this?”

Steve crouched and took his hat.  “Because it’s Veterans Day, pal.  Like Mommy said this morning.”

“What’s a vet’ran?”

Steve glanced at Bucky, and Bucky shook his head.  _Don’t you dare._   “It’s someone who served our country in the military,” he explained instead.  James had no idea what that meant, of course.  He’d never seen Steve like this before, so he quizzically studied it all, his father in his dark blue, pressed slacks and shiny black shoes, in his crisp, white dress shirt and navy blue officer’s coat with all its adornments.  His rank as a captain and all of his honors and insignias were pinned on his left breast.  Steve had some sort of strange and special arrangement with the army.  He was not actively serving, but he wasn’t retired or discharged, either.  The brass had been fairly desperate to keep Captain America in their ranks, so they’d been willing to do just about anything to make him happy, including allowing him to work principally for SHIELD and as an Avenger.  Bucky knew Steve consulted for the army quite often, and he taught classes at West Point occasionally.  He was still regarded as history’s best soldier, with his sharp, tactical mind and vast experience, so his expertise was highly valued by the military.  And Steve was always eager to oblige, to offer up his time, name, and sway with the public.  Hence this situation.  “It’s someone who’s a soldier.”

“Was a soldier, in some cases,” Bucky corrected.

“ _Is_ a soldier,” Steve insisted firmly, glancing at his friend out of the corner of his eye.  “Everyone who’s served deserves to be honored this day.  Everyone.”

“Stop it, Steve.”

“What?”

Bucky sighed and stood.  He didn’t want to do this.  Not today.  Not ever, really, but especially not today.  “You know what.  And you know why.”

Steve set his hand to James’ blond hair, rising to his full height as well and staring down Bucky.  Bucky met his gaze defiantly.  They were best friends, brothers almost, but ego factored into that over things like this, over protecting each other and doing right by one another.  It always had and always would.  Maybe years had passed since Steve had found Bucky after HYDRA had been destroyed, but somehow in moments like this it never felt that long ago.  It didn’t feel that long ago that the two of them had stared each other down across a gangway on HYDRA’s helicarrier, Steve trying to pierce through HYDRA’s programming to reach his brainwashed, tortured brother.  Bucky’s memories of that fight, where he’d pumped four bullets into Steve before nearly beating him to death, were blurry even now.  Some things were too painful to recall, even for a mind as damaged as his had been.  Still, he knew he’d done wrong, _terrible evil_ , as the Winter Soldier.  Years and years of it.  Maybe those crimes had been perpetrated against been his will, but it had been his hands, his talent with a sniper rifle, his sharp senses and quick mind, his strength as a soldier that had seen them done.  A lot had happened since then, so much of it good.  He’d joined SHIELD and the Avengers.  He’d been welcomed into Steve’s family in a way he’d never imagined.  They’d named James after him.  He was listed as one of the boys’ legal guardians, for crying out loud.  Steve and Natasha had let him in, let him be a part of _this_ , without a doubt in their minds (well, without a doubt in Steve’s.  He wasn’t sure Natasha had felt the same at the time, but she did now).  To their sons, the Winter Soldier didn’t exist.  The horrors he’d committed against the world, against their parents and their father in particular, _never happened._   The boys loved him as their uncle, and he loved them.

And he didn’t deserve _any of it_.

That was the more complex reason.  He knew it was ridiculous and stupid, but he still couldn’t shake that insecurity.  He’d made his peace with what he’d done for the most part.  The forgiveness he’d found in Steve, Natasha, and the Avengers had done a lot to proffer his own acceptance.  And the love of James and Joseph had done even more to help him heal.  But there were some things that never went away.  There would always been those awful memories.  The guilt he could never quite wash away.  On days like today, a day meant to honor soldiers who’d served to keep this country safe, it was almost unbearable, how unworthy he felt.  Steve constantly reminded him he’d been the world’s longest-suffering POW, and Bucky knew he was right.  That wasn’t enough to make it better, though.  He didn’t deserve any of the accolades, the respect, the love.  He didn’t deserve to wear the uniform.  He didn’t deserve to march in that parade.  He couldn’t be honored.  He’d been an assassin, a murderer, a monster.  He didn’t belong at Steve’s side.  Not today.

Most of all, he didn’t understand why Steve couldn’t see that.  He wasn’t chronically depressed or anything of the like anymore, and he hadn’t been for years.  This was just… _a thing_ with him, and he wanted Steve to leave it alone.

Then again, part of him _didn’t_ want Steve to leave it alone, because that same part of him _knew_ Steve was right.  Despite how terrified he was, maybe it would do him some good to make his peace with this, too.  Steve was right.  He was a soldier and a prisoner of war.  He’d sacrificed a great deal for his country, in some ways even more than Steve had.  He deserved recognition for that, didn’t he?  It was too hard to admit that, though, particularly after putting up a fuss about this for so long.  This was hardly the first time Steve had tried to have Bucky participate in something military-related, stubborn as he was, and this was hardly the first time Bucky had resisted (stubborn as _he_ was). 

Steve never broke eye contact.  “I want you to do this with me,” he flat-out admitted.

“Why’s this one so special to you?  Like I said, this is hardly the first time you’ve gotten up there and done your Captain America thing.  Maybe the scale’s bigger, but it’s the same.”

“Gabe’s dead.”  Bucky’s irritation cooled at the sorrow in Steve’s eyes.  Gabe Jones had died earlier that year.  He’d lived a ridiculously long time, well over a hundred years, but he’d been declining for a while and his passing, like that of all their other friends and former colleagues, had been inevitable.  All of the Howling Commandos were gone.  All of SSR.  Peggy.  Everyone with whom they’d served.  “It’s just us.  We’re all that’s left.  You and me.  I want you to be there with me and I want to be there with you.”

Bucky sighed sharply.  “They invited _you_ ,” he reminded.  “You’re supposed to be there.”

“Buck, it’s Veterans Day!  You don’t need an invitation!  That war we fought in eighty some odd years ago?  _That’s_ your reason for being there.  That’s all you need.”  Bucky shook his head, wanting to argue but barely finding it within himself in the face of Steve’s persistence.  Steve clasped Bucky’s shoulder.  “Come on.  Walk with me.  Go to Arlington with me.  Stand with Sam and me up there.”

The thought of appearing in public, in front of crowds and the media…  He was unmistakable with his metal arm.  Though the government had long forgiven him his crimes, he wasn’t so sure about the public.  He’d been seen with the Avengers, of course, but he’d never been in the spotlight.  He was a sniper, so it was easy to stay out of sight.  Eight years had passed since HYDRA’s fall.  Was it really okay to be seen like this?  “I…  I don’t know, Steve.”  What came next was a last ditch effort because he’d never been able to deny Steve much of anything.  “What if Natasha needs–”

“I won’t need anything,” came Natasha’s force from the interior door that separated the adjoining rooms.

James saw his mother and went running to her.  “Mommy!” he cried, jumping at her side.  “Mommy!  Daddy’s a soldier!  Look at him!”

Natasha appraised Steve.  She was impeccable, of course, dressed in a classy black pant suit and a red blouse.  “You look decent, Rogers,” she commented, and Bucky knew her well enough to see she was impressed (and very much in love) under her cool exterior.  It wasn’t often she saw this side of Steve, and Bucky felt just a little proud that this was something that he’d known long before anyone else.  “Your speech looks good.  I didn’t do much to it.  And Joe’s still napping, but we can wake him up to go.”

Steve glanced at the clock near the bed.  “Nah, there’s time.”  Bucky could see he was disappointed.  “You wanna eat, James?”  He held out his hand, and James came over, reaching for Steve’s fingers.  Steve set his hat on James’ head, and James’ eyes went wide.  He whispered a “whoa” as the two of them went into the other room where breakfast was waiting.

Bucky felt equal parts relieved and ashamed of himself.  Natasha regarded him, and even though he knew she wasn’t judging him, he barely resisted the urge to fidget under her gaze.  “He’s not trying to push you,” she said.  “He’s nervous.”

“I know that, Tash.  Of course I do,” Bucky said.  “But you of all people know why I can’t–”

“I know,” she interrupted softly.  “I’ve been there.  It doesn’t happen too often anymore, but sometimes I still go back in my head.  That’s why I also know that all these things you’re feeling right now…  They’re real, _very real_ , to you.  And you’re allowed to feel them.  But they’re not right.”  She gave a soft smile.  “And that’s why I know it’s okay to let him win this one.  Go with him.  It’s alright.  You deserve it.”

Bucky’s mouth hung open.  He didn’t know what to say.  The thought of putting on a uniform, of going out like this, of people noticing him and _thanking_ him for what he’d done…  “I don’t know.”

“Well, I do.  And Steve does.  And Sam.  He managed to get you a uniform–”

Bucky frowned.  “What?”

“–just in case you changed your mind.  It’s in the closet.”  She smiled again.  “Just in case.”

He was surrounded.  That was it.  Even Black Widow, the one person who he thought would take his side…  Well, maybe his side was pretty dumb.  And his reasons for not wanting to do this, simple or complex, real or not, _were_ in his head.  He wasn’t completely blind to his own insecurities.  So he sighed.  “Can’t go like this.”  Not with his perpetually unshaven face and long hair.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a decent haircut.

Natasha nodded, pleased (and a bit relieved, if he let himself see it).  “I think Steve would be okay with you borrowing his razor.  And…  Well, if you want, I can do something to make you look presentable.”

He cocked an eyebrow, not entirely comfortable with that but touched by the offer.  “Really?”

“Sure.  I, um…  God, if you ever tell Steve…  I posed as a hairdresser on an undercover op once.  Before you guys.  Trained for weeks to be able to pull it off.”  Bucky laughed.  He couldn’t help it.  And she actually blushed.  He thought he could count the number of times he’d seen Natasha blush on one hand, and he felt just a tad bit _awesome_ for being the one behind it this time.  “Go shave.  I’ll get everything else.”

Not long after that, Bucky stood in the huge bathroom of the suite, smoothing his newly shorn hair back.  Natasha had cut it shorter and a bit more modern than he’d had it back in the day, back during the war, but he had to admit he liked it.  She’d put some gel in it so that it stayed in place.  His jaw was smooth and freshly shaven, and he was dressed in the same white dress shirt and dark slacks as Steve.  His coat was a little different as an NCO and not as overloaded with awards and ranks, but he had a few to his name, a few he hadn’t thought about in years for his service as a Howling Commando.  As he stood there, he caught sight of a man he’d thought long dead.  Eighty years had passed since he’d stood in their old place in Brooklyn, dressed in army greens as a newly christened sergeant, ready to head overseas and fight.  He didn’t physically look any older because of the serum and what had happened to him.  Were it not for the weight that he always saw in his eyes (eyes that even now sometimes seemed to be those of a stranger) and his metal hand peeking out from the cuff of his sleeve, he could almost imagine he _was_ that man.  Bucky Barnes, twenty-five years old and ready to do his duty for his country.  A looker and a charmer.  A soldier.  A good man.

There was a knock on the door.  “We’re heading down, Buck,” Steve called.

“Okay.  I’ll be right after you.”  His voice wavered.  He couldn’t help it.

Steve paused, and Bucky could feel him shifting worriedly just outside.  “You okay?”

“Right as rain, Rogers,” he responded, and he was really.  He couldn’t quite believe he was actually doing this, but it felt _good_ to wear the uniform, much better than he thought it would.

His confidence faded, though, the second he walked outside into the warm, sunny November day.  The hotel was not far from where the parade would start, and he walked down the block, trying to seem… _normal_.  Already there were hundreds of people gathered.  Bands with brass instruments that gleamed in the sun.  Veterans who weren’t marching.  Others that were.  Their families.  Well-wishers and supporters and citizens who had come to pay their respects.  The thought of so many eyes on him made him freeze with trepidation, anxiety tight in his gut.  Suddenly he was back to the beginning of his recovery, so aware of the wrong he’d done, of what he’d become, of how _damaged_ he was.  Suddenly he was ashamed.  Suddenly he was terrified, and he wanted to run.  Suddenly…

“Uncle Buck!”

Suddenly he saw the Rogers family.  His family.  They stood with Sam near the sidewalk where the parade was gathering.  Steve had Joseph in arms, and James held Natasha’s hand, waving a little American flag at him.  He still had Steve’s hat on his head, and it was so big it dipped over his eyes.  Sam grinned, dapper in an Air Force uniform with his cap tucked under his arm and sunglasses on (Bucky had never seen him dressed like this before, but it seemed so right, knowing how noble and valorous Sam was).  He stared at them, at how happy and proud they were to be there on this day, and for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure this was his place.

But Joseph squirmed down from Steve’s arms, and once he was on the sidewalk, he came running over.  He stood right at Bucky’s feet and _saluted_ , his little fingers flat to his forehead _._   He was so serious, so pointed.  He was probably mimicking all the other officers around them who had been doing the same to their COs, and Bucky knew that.  But his heart beat hard and fast with joy, and he gasped a laugh that was definitely not part sob.  James came as well, and for once he was the one following his little brother’s footsteps.  He saluted Bucky, too.  “What’s this mean, Uncle Buck?”

“Means you’re paying respect,” he said, his throat tight.

“Oh.  Okay.”  His little body went stiff as he saluted harder (if one could do such a thing). 

It was just what he needed.  “C’mere, you two,” Bucky gasped, dropping to a crouch to wrap his arms around the boys and hug them tight.

“You look funny,” James said.  “What happened to your hair?”

Bucky laughed, lifting Joe up with his metal arm and taking James’ hand.  “Can’t be a soldier looking like I did,” he said, swallowing down the knot in his throat.  “At least not today.  Gotta represent your country.  Look your best in a uniform, right?”

“Right, Uncle Buck,” James firmly agreed.

They walked back to Steve, Natasha, and Sam, and Joseph immediately reached for his mother.  Natasha smiled knowingly.  “Sergeant Barnes,” she greeted.

“Hey, man,” Sam said, clasping Bucky’s hand and pulling him into a hug.  “I like it.  Looks good on you.”

Bucky grunted, trying yet again not to let his emotions get the better of him.  He almost succeeded.  Almost, in this moment that felt like one of the biggest triumphs of his life (right up there with finding himself again, finding Steve again, and becoming an uncle).  Then he saw Steve gawking at him, surprised and overjoyed and so very relieved.  And Bucky did something he’d never really done before, not even during the war when he should have.  It just seemed right.  Natural.  He snapped to attention and saluted the commanding officer of his unit.

Steve choked on his breath, smiling so wide.  He grabbed Bucky hard and pulled him close.

Natasha took the boys to find a spot to watch the parade.  James put Steve’s hat back on his father’s head, giving him a salute, too (since saluting was very much the thing to do today), before going with his mother.  The three men stood there a moment in the nation’s capital, surrounded by peers and colleagues, by men and women who shared in the day’s honor, before taking their place in the gathering parade.  They marched.  Then, at Arlington, Captain Rogers stood in front of the assembled audience, thousands strong, with American flags, flags of all branches of the military, and POW-MIA banners flying high and proud around him.  Bucky stood on his left, Sam on his right, and he gave his speech.  Bucky heard the words, and of course they were exactly what Steve would say.  Thanking the nation for the honor to serve, for the privilege of protecting peace and freedom.  Reminding everyone of the duty they all shared, military or not, veteran or not, to do what was right and moral, to be strong and brave for each other.  This day, soldiers everywhere stood together, no matter who they were or what they had endured for the sake of the nation.

Bucky heard the words, but his mind was far away.  In an alleyway in Brooklyn.  On the front in Italy.  On a helicarrier as it burned and fell into the Potomac.  On the battlefield with the Avengers.  He fought alongside soldiers, side by side with heroes.  With Captain America.

That was the only place he’d ever belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, so many, _many_ thanks to the wonderful [vbprodz](http://vbprodz.tumblr.com) for the artwork for this chapter!


	40. The Apple of My Eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Well, this was supposed to answer two prompts: 1) the Rogers family doing some fall fun, and 2) James and Joseph making a mess. What it ended up being is a pile of angst. I've got no explanation :-P. This is something of a sequel to "It's Alright". Thanks for reading!

As the Rogers family worked its way through fall, things slipped into a routine surprisingly easily.  With James off at school, the house was very quiet.  Steve was gone, too.  He’d gone back to work, back to SHIELD and back to leading the Avengers.  He’d been on medical leave for almost four months.  Two of those (through most of the summer) he’d been physically incapable of doing much of anything.  It had been a struggle in every sense of the word for him to heal from such devastating injuries, for him to regain his strength and for him to accept how close he’d come to dying and leaving his family behind.  That latter part was still ongoing, Natasha thought, even though it didn’t show much.  He’d spent another month or so after that just _recovering_.  Playing with the boys.  Loving them.  Loving her.  Staying around the house to help transition James into school and help taking care of a rambunctious toddler.  He’d never been home so much before (and, for how wonderful that had been, it had honestly had its own drawbacks, like the fact that he wasn’t so good at picking up after his sons or himself or that he was pretty phenomenally useless at multi-tasking.  How was it that he could coordinate a complicated battle filled with dozens of moving pieces all at once with no help and no problems, but “make sure you do the laundry while you’re home with the boys” went straight over his head?  It boggled her mind).  A few weeks ago, with the physical signs of his injuries long gone thanks to the serum, Fury had summoned him back to active duty.  His mood had changed almost instantly, although again, it didn’t show much.  The carefree light had faded from his eyes a little.  The energy he’d had, the vigor in his voice and the enthusiasm in his heart, was tempered with reality.  Of course he’d gone back; he was a soldier, and he had orders to follow and missions that required completion.  He was Captain America, and this was his duty.  But she knew that he hadn’t been happy about it.

She was worried about him, to be honest.  Not the sort of deep and devastating fear that had plagued her when he’d been in the hospital or home those first tentative weeks when even the simplest of movements and tasks had been painful and difficult.  It wasn’t even the anxiety about him getting hurt _again_ that clung constantly to her thoughts now like the tendrils of an inky cloud in the back of her mind.  No, she was worried about how he was feeling, that the PTSD the doctors had warned her about was setting in and setting in quickly.  It was as if going back to work and the real world beyond the idyllic home life they lived had triggered it.  Aside from a few nightmares in the beginning when he’d been so weak and tender, he’d been surprisingly _fine_ about it all, about the fact that he’d nearly been crushed to death, alone and cut off from the rest of the team.  That he’d essentially died by himself, and he’d been conscious and aware enough to realize it.  As the summer had disappeared and the passing weeks had suddenly taken them into autumn, she’d thought they’d dodged a bullet on that one.  Now she wasn’t so sure.  Sam had told her that PTSD could come on without much warning.  Well, she was pretty sure that was what was happening, and it hurt to watch Steve abruptly seeming tired, lost, and uncertain.  He kept saying he was fine, but that was his _modus operandi_ to hide how _not fine_ he really was.  She’d learned that years ago.

Joseph was still too young to notice, but James did.  Not that Steve was obvious about it, but he was a bit withdrawn, somewhat depressed and skittish, and James was perceptive.  He’d asked Natasha once or twice if Daddy was okay.  For him the horror of the early summer was a distant, hazy memory, so he didn’t connect Steve’s current moods with the trauma they’d all endured.  And Natasha said everything was fine, and everything _was_ fine.  She just needed some way to ease Steve’s mind, to get him through what was bothering him.

So that was why, on this beautiful autumn day, she suggested to Steve and James that they go pick apples and make apple pie.  Before she’d even finished explaining her idea, she knew she’d done right to offer it.  Steve’s eyes immediately brightened.  Was it at all surprising that Captain America liked apple pie?  Natasha was Russian, and even she understood how _American_ that was.  Fresh fruit hadn’t been something Steve had had in abundance during his youth because of the Depression, so this was another thing he’d never really had as a kid.  It was also something, despite her appreciation for cooking and baking, that she’d never attempted to make.  They’d had it before, of course, but always store-bought (well, Steve had had it; come to think of it, she couldn’t remember ever trying it).  Still, she was seeing more and more that there was just something about autumn and apples.  Something very homey, very traditional.  Even James was bringing home all sorts of apple-related artwork and worksheets from kindergarten.  As she bought groceries with Joseph, she noticed it all over the stores: apple cider, apple cake, apple bread, apple doughnuts.  All manners and sorts of apple related desserts, confectionaries, and treats.  Sweet and seasonal fun.

She knew this was the sort of thing Steve would enjoy: spending time together with worries about work distant and nonthreatening.  They could bundle up and head out to one of the many apple orchards in the surrounding areas.  New York was famous for apples, after all, and the farms around where they lived were brimming with them.  They could go and pick a bunch and then make pie or whatever else they wanted to.  She had the fixings for lasagna (a favorite of both her husband’s and her son’s).  Who cared if that didn’t go with apple pie?  She’d make a nice dinner, and they’d eat and play and relax, just the four of them.  He’d never picked apples before.  Neither had James, of course.  None of them had.  This would be fun, an adventure of sorts, and just like that, the somber tone of the morning vanished.  Father and son were excitedly finding coats, hats, and gloves.  Natasha changed Joseph and bundled him up, smiling proudly to herself (and quite a bit relieved, even though she wasn’t going to show it) as she listened to them talk, about one of the local farms that had an orchard and a corn maze and games for kids.  A few minutes later, they were in their car and heading out.

The farm in question was about thirty minutes away.  Everywhere the trees were bright with colors, burning reds and golden yellows and bright oranges.  The day was pretty, a little chilly with a crisp breeze, perfect for apple-picking.  James was bouncing with excitement when they parked and walked over, pulling Steve with him and blabbering a mile a minute, and Steve was smiling, _really_ smiling, for the first time in weeks.  Natasha trailed behind with Joey, watching as Steve paid their way into the farm’s activities and the orchard.  The two of them got a bucket, and off they went.

She was surprised that the trees weren’t very tall.   They were loaded with apples, though, thick and lush with them.  Quite a few had fallen onto the ground in between the rows, and it was something of a challenge to keep Joseph from sticking each and every one of them he found into his mouth.  As short as the trees were, though, they were still much taller than James.  Steve lifted him up, balancing his bottom on his elbow and forearm and moving him closer while carrying their bucket with his other hand.  James went to town, plucking apple after apple off the trees and dumping them into the bucket.  “Make sure you guys get ones that aren’t rotted,” Natasha reminded.  Steve gave her an exasperated look at that, and James got to down specifically to find ones on the ground that _were_ rotted just to see it.  That and apples that were full of bugs.  He started talking about worms and things, going on about what they’d learned in school about insects.  Joseph toddled over to Steve so he could get a turn at picking.  Natasha pulled out her phone and snapped a couple of pictures of them (she _never_ did stuff like that, but today they were like every other family here, so why not?).  Steve still looked so tall and strong compared to them, just as he had _before_ everything that happened.  It gave her pause, even now, because nothing had changed, really, but still somehow something was different.  This wasn’t the first time she’d noticed it over the last few months, and it bothered her.

They kept picking.  Pretty soon the bucket was full.  They had significantly more apples than she’d ever use for baking or anything else, but they were having fun (and that was the point) so she didn’t stop them.  She’d find something to do with the apples, maybe make applesauce for the baby or apple cakes for James’ class (or for the team.  She knew for a fact Tony, Clint, and Thor greatly appreciated the days where she sent Steve to the Avengers facility bearing baked goods).  She watched the boys laugh, reaching to be lifted up by their father to get more, and her mind was racing through the culinary possibilities.  She was so contented by that that she didn’t even notice a phone ringing.  At first she thought it was hers, but her jacket pocket wasn’t vibrating so it had to be Steve’s.  Sure enough, he traded Joseph to his other arm and reached into his jeans.  Natasha could tell from the sour look crossing his face that it was work-related.  “Sir,” he said after thumbing the screen and holding it up to his ear.  Joseph was giggling loudly as James grabbed his feet.  “Yes, sir.  No.  No, it’s fine.”  Steve came over, handing Natasha the baby with an apologetic frown before walking away.  “Nick, it’s fine.  I can – no.  Sure.”  He disappeared around the corner.

Natasha sighed.  “Mommy, where’s Daddy going?” James asked, trying to lug the bucket but failing.

“Nowhere,” she answered.  _Please, let it be nowhere._

It wasn’t.  Steve was back in a moment, all his good cheer gone.  His eyes were dark now, troubled, and she could see he was upset and disappointed.  “Fury needs me at HQ,” he said.  He frowned.  “Right away.”

She didn’t like the sound of that.  And she didn’t like that SHIELD was interrupting their afternoon.  She was tempted to call Fury herself and tell him to lay off, but she couldn’t.  She was a SHIELD agent and an Avenger.  So was Steve.  This was what they did, what they signed up for, what it was all about.  “How bad is it?”

“Don’t know yet,” he said, but she could tell he was worried.  Worried about going out there.  Even though he’d been back to work for a few weeks, he hadn’t done anything more than overseen things from HQ and caught up on a mountain of paperwork.  This portended to be something more than that, a real mission like he’d done, like _they’d both done_ , countless times _before._   “I’ll, um…  I’m sorry.”

She was a little too shocked and upset herself (though she’d _never_ show that) to care that this was ruining their family outing.  “Don’t worry about it.”

“Sam’s on his way to get you guys.  I need to take the car.”

“Whatever you need.”

“He’ll be here in a few.  And I’ll call when I know more.”

Natasha swallowed, aching and hollow inside.  “I’ll still make dinner.  It’ll be ready when you get home, okay?”

“Okay.”  Despite smiling, he didn’t look okay.  Not at all.  But he leaned closer and kissed her firmly, leaving her worried and wanting, before kissing Joseph’s soft cheek and turning to James.  “I gotta run, big guy.  Uncle Sam’s coming, though.  You’ll have fun with him for a bit, okay?”

“Why, Daddy?” James whined.  He clung to Steve’s side for a moment.  “Why?”

“I have to go to work,” Steve responded sadly.  “But you guys go on ahead without me.  Make apple pie.  I want to have some when I get home.”

James was very obviously displeased.  “Daddy…”

“Can’t help it,” Steve responded.  His tone bordered on curt, like he was trying to stave off James’ complaining because he knew it would undo his resolve.  “Be good for your mom.”

With that, Steve was leaving, the lines of his shoulders and back tense beneath his coat.  Natasha watched him go, worrying more by the second.  “Is Daddy okay, Mommy?” James asked quietly, coming over to tug on her hand.  He hadn’t asked that since Steve had come home from the hospital.

“He’s fine,” she assured.  She made herself believe it.

True to Steve’s word, Sam arrived about twenty minutes later.  It was not a moment too soon, since Natasha couldn’t carry their overflowing bucket of apples and a squirming toddler at the same time, so they’d been rather stuck in the orchard.  Sam lifted James up with a big smile, ruffling his hair and coming to her rescue.  For another hour or so the two of them watched the boys play and enjoy the farm’s other attractions, the little petting zoo area and the corn maze and the slides.  Then Sam drove them home.  “Was he okay when he left?” he asked after Joseph had nodded off.  James was quiet, watching both of them, and she didn’t really want to bring this up in front of him.  But Sam was insistent despite being so calm.  It was obvious he was really concerned.  “I tried to talk Fury out of involving him.”

“What’s going on?” she asked.

Sam sighed, his eyes narrowing as he watched the road.  “Some sort of mess related to AIM.  SHIELD’s gathering intel now, I think, but if the worst turns out to be true, Fury wants to send the Avengers.”

Natasha didn’t want to hear that.  And she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer to her question, but she was asking it anyway.  “Do you think he’s ready?”

“To go back out there?”  She nodded, feeling low and anxious.  Sam sighed slowly.  “It had to happen eventually.”  She didn’t want to hear that either, even if it was true.  Sam sighed again.  “Steve’s recovered from things like this before.”

He had.  The ice.  What the Winter Soldier had done to him.  But as incredible as it was, the stakes had somehow been smaller then, or at least less complicated.  He’d been able to fully give himself to the world.  Now he had a family.  Aside from the night he’d come home from the hospital, they hadn’t mentioned him quitting again.  That had been so painful that the topic had become untouchable.  Honestly, she was torn about it.  They didn’t need the money at all.  And was she ever going to send him out there on another mission and not spend the whole time he was gone scared out of her mind?  Could he let her go knowing what had happened to him could have happened to her just as easily?  It was enough to make her crazy, all the tension of the past weeks just simmering in her blood.

Sam smiled and reached over to set a hand on her shoulder.  “It’s fine.  He’ll pick himself up.”

They got home.  After hauling in their ridiculous pile of apples, Sam offered to stay, but Natasha said it was fine, so he wrestled with the boys a minute and then was on his way.  She stood in the kitchen with the pile of apples in the sink, feeling more lost and unsettled than she had in weeks, listening to Joseph and James tearing around the house behind her.  _It’s alright._   She’d told herself that a lot when Steve had been hurt.  _It’s alright._   With a deep, centering breath, she snapped to it.  “Come on, you guys.  Help me sort out your apples.”

They went to work.  That was good.  It kept her busy, kept her mind off things.  A mission of her own.  Make apple pie for Steve and make dinner.  She could do that.  She washed their acquisitions and got a mixing bowl.  Then she sat both the boys down at the kitchen table as she started peeling and cutting up some apples.  The two kids giggled, loud and exuberant and pretty much oblivious to how often she was glancing at the clock, her StarkPhone, and the kitchen phone.  _This is stupid._   Sam was right; this had been inevitable, a step that needed to be taken in Steve’s recovery.  And that was it.  They’d take it, just like they’d taken all the others.

The boys were eating almost as much as she was cutting, but they had extras, so she didn’t care.  Not long after, she had a full bowl of apples.  Then she brought a recipe for the pie crust on her phone.  “James, honey, can you get these things from the fridge?”  Butter.  Eggs.  She went and got flour and the other things they’d need.  Pretty soon they were making the dough.  Both the boys were at the counter with her, “helping” as children did.  “No, Joe.  Let me.”  She grabbed flour before it ended up all over.  “Wait, James.  James.”  She snatched the sugar away before her older son added it to the batter instead of the salt.  “Okay, guys?  Just listen for a second.  We need to–”

Her phone rang, and she immediately dropped what she was doing, wiped her hands off, and snatched it off the kitchen counter.  It was Steve.  Her heart ached with equal parts relief and apprehension, and her thumb lingered over the touch screen hesitantly for a second before she answered.  “Hello?”

“Hi.  It’s me.”

“Are you okay?”  That wasn’t the first thing she meant to ask because that betrayed just how much she was worrying, but out it came all the same.

He didn’t respond right away, and, God, if _that_ didn’t make it all worse.  Maybe something was wrong.  Or maybe her concerns had unnecessarily heightened whatever anxiety he was feeling.  It didn’t matter.  “Yeah.”  He went on, and his voice was stronger.  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” he answered.  The boys were getting louder and louder behind her, banging something (likely the spoon against the mixing bowl), laughing and probably making a mess.  She needed to pay attention to them, but she found she couldn’t.  “Fury needs my opinion on something brewing in China.  We’re monitoring some intel coming out of Beijing.  He wants me to be ready to assemble the Avengers if it comes to it.”

She sighed, closing her eyes.  “When?”

“I don’t know.  I’m going to be here for a while longer.  You guys probably shouldn’t wait for me.”  There was grief and frustration in his voice that he tried so hard to hide.

“No, Steve, it’s fine.  I’ll make dinner and keep the boys up,” she assured, mindlessly pacing.  “It’s not a big deal.  We can wait.”

“It could be hours, Nat.  You better not.  I’ll just eat when I get back.”

She didn’t want their day to go like this.  “Steve–”

“James wanted to make his pie.  How’s that going, by the way?”

Natasha winced at the noise.  “Loudly.”

Steve gave a little laugh.  “I can hear.  You better get back to it.  Just tell him I’ll, um…”  He actually paused, like he was trying to get control of himself.  “I’ll have some tomorrow.”

 _Tomorrow._   All the unspoken fear came bubbling up inside her.  She still couldn’t let it show.  There was nothing to be afraid of, anyway, even if Steve had to leave tonight or tomorrow to do his job.  This was who they were.  Captain America and Black Widow.  And this was the step that needed to be taken.  She took a deep breath, ignoring the ruckus growing behind her.  “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”  It still didn’t sound fine.  “I’ll keep you informed, okay?”

Natasha bit her lower lip.  “I love you.”

“Love you, too.”  The call ended, and Natasha slowly lowered her phone from her ear.  The screen dimmed as she stood there, hating the way things were just a little, angry and irritated and aching for him.  But it was alright.  It had to be.  _Take the step and be strong.  He can do this._   Drawing a centering breath, she turned around.

She didn’t know what she had been expecting.  A mess, certainly, but not _this_ large.  “James!  Joseph!”  The two boys immediately stopped mid-mischief, turning to her.  They were both absolutely covered in flour.  It was _everywhere_ : in their hair, all over their faces, coating their clothes, so thick upon them that they looked like little, naughty ghosts.  It was elsewhere, too, in little mountains on the kitchen floor, floating down from the counters, sprayed across the granite.  It covered the mixing bowls, the sink, everything, in fact.  There was even some thrown up onto the ceiling.  James had _written his name_ , for crying out loud, in the flour dust on the cabinet doors!

How had they done _this much damage_ so quickly?  She’d only been on the phone with Steve for a couple of minutes, if that!  Every muscle in her body went taut in anger.  James’ eyes were wide, and his lips were pulled into a fearful frown.  “Sorry, Mommy,” he whimpered.

“Sorry, Mama,” Joseph parroted.

“We didn’t mean to.”  James frowned, nearly on the verge of tears.

She wanted to be furious.  She was already feeling a tad frayed, so losing her temper was a distinct possibility.  But she couldn’t manage it.  One look at the two of them pouting in their mess and it was too cute and absurd to be cross with them.  Joseph was pounding on the tile, sending clouds of flour flying, laughing and scrunching it in his hands.  James just watched her with those ridiculously huge puppy eyes of his.  Her mind went back to years ago, when James had been only a little older than Joseph, when Steve had tried to bake for her when she’d had a bad day and had ended up with a huge disaster like this.  She couldn’t help but laugh at the irony.  That made James laugh, too.  A moment later, she was taking pictures of them on her phone, snapping shot after shot because it was kind of sort of somewhat _adorable._   She sent a few to Steve.  _“You wanted to know how it was going,”_ she typed as she emailed the pictures off.

Then she gathered up her children and set to cleaning them up.  A whole roll of paper towels disappeared as she wiped them down enough to get them into the tub upstairs without tracking flour everywhere.  She attacked the counters afterward.  When the kitchen was mostly back in order, she gave the boys their baths.  It was late enough in the evening that she just put them into pajamas.  After that, they went back to baking, this time the bag of flour well out of their reach, and finished making the pie crust.  With the dough in the refrigerator, she cleaned up again.  She considered forgetting the lasagna all together; why make more work for herself?  But then she thought of Steve, coming home hungry and probably looking for some comfort, so she nodded to herself and made it while James and Joseph ran around the living room and pretended to be the Avengers.  Joe didn’t know what he was doing really, but this had become one of their favorite games.  He particularly liked make believing he was Captain America (of course) or Thor.  James always made Joe be “Hawk Guy” or Iron Man.  Joe preferred the Hulk himself, stomping around and screaming.  Natasha paused to get a video of that and send it to Steve’s phone.  He hadn’t responded to the pictures she’d sent first, and he didn’t respond to this.

They ate the lasagna, leaving a significant portion for Steve.  She cleaned up more.  Then they made the pie once the dough was ready.  She helped James and Joseph roll it out and get it into the pie plate.  They sprinkled sugar and cinnamon onto the apples before mixing it all and dumping it in.  Natasha cut strips of the leftover dough and crisscrossed them over the apples.  She coated the lattice in sugar and butter.  Into the oven it went.

She took the boys to bed after that, trying not to seem worried.  It was well past eight o’clock, and she hadn’t heard a thing from Steve.  Both Joseph and James asked about him as she tucked them in.  “He’s working,” she told James, smoothing his hair back.  “He’ll be home soon.”

James regarded her with worried eyes, and suddenly all these comforting assumptions she’d made that he didn’t understand why his father had been acting as he had were proven wrong.  “Is Daddy scared?  He seems scared.”

Natasha smiled sadly.  “It’s hard, sometimes.  When you get hurt bad like Daddy did.  Your body gets better but your heart takes longer.”  James frowned.  “He just loves you guys so much.  He doesn’t want what happened to ever happen again.  That’s it.”

“Will it?”

Of course it could.  But Natasha was quickly learning that, no matter what, as a parent you needed to make your children feel safe and secure.  The last few months had been a proof of that like nothing else.  “No.  Sometimes bad things just happen.  They might knock you down, but the important thing is to get back up.  Daddy’s very careful and very good at what he does.  He’s the best in the world.  And he has all of your uncles at his side.  Do you think Uncle Bucky or Uncle Sam or Uncle Tony would let him get hurt again?”

James shook his head.  “Will the pie be done in the morning?”

“Uh-huh..”

“Will he eat it with me?”

“I’m sure he will.  He’ll love it.”  She smiled more genuinely and leaned down to kiss him.  “Sweet dreams.”

With the boys asleep, she stood in her silent house and tried not to worry.  It was getting very late.  She took the pie out of the oven.  It looked and smelled delicious, she had to admit.  Leaving that to cool, she cleaned up _again_ (not obsessively, not at all) and waited, checking her phone seemingly every other second.  She wasn’t going to call him, wasn’t going to let on how scared she was.  Finally it beeped and vibrated.  _“Be home soon.  You don’t need to wait up.”_

Yeah, right.

He came in the door about an hour later.  The car keys hit the little table in the front entry, and he draped his jacket on the back of the couch.  He looked tired.  Burdened.  It was all very close to the surface now.  He tried to smile.  “Hi.”

She wanted to run across the living room and kiss him, make sure he was alright, but she knew she needed to be the strong one now.  “Hi.  I’ve got some leftovers ready for you.”

He smiled genuinely.  “Oh, thanks.  Starved.”  He caught sight of the pie as he walked toward the kitchen.  “Wow.  Looks amazing.  James and Joe made it?”

“Yeah.  More or less.”

He smiled, again weakly and very melancholy.  “Sorry I missed it.”

They sat at the dinette table.  Steve immediately devoured the large portion of lasagna and bread she had warmed up for him.  They talked about what was going on.  It was exactly like it sounded like.  AIM was making a move.  The rogue organization had access to what SHIELD thought was some sort of new bioweapons, the sort that could be devastating if they ever used them.  AIM was transporting a shipment of them from one location in China to another one more remote and difficult to access tomorrow evening.  It was the best chance SHIELD had for an assault.  The Avengers had to stop them.  “I’m leaving first thing tomorrow morning,” he quietly declared after explaining all that.  “Fury wants me to lead the mission.”

That was surprising.  It shouldn’t have been, but it still was.  Hearing him say it, though…  It suddenly became real.  She stared at him.  There was no need to figure out how he felt.  He looked… _tortured._   He set his fork down, shaking his head, and when he glanced at her again, there were tears in his eyes.  “I don’t want to do this, Nat.  I don’t know if I can.  I can’t…  It can’t happen again.  I can’t lose you.”

“I know,” she said, scooting closer in her chair.

“I knew this was coming.  It had to happen, right?  I have to pick up the shield and go back out there.”  She wanted to tell him he didn’t.  He didn’t need to keep doing this, to keep being Captain America, but she couldn’t.  She wouldn’t.  This wasn’t who he was, which wasn’t to say he wasn’t allowed his moments of doubt and fear.  His moments to break.  Of course he deserved those.  More than anyone, he did.  She’d been waiting for this, and now that it was happening, she was relieved because she was there to help him and they could get past it.  He sighed shakily, wiping angrily at this eyes.  “Never been scared to fight before.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” she said.  Her own eyes burned.  “You nearly died, Steve.”

That was all it took.  All the emotions he’d been denying and hiding and holding back burst out of him on a choked sob.  Natasha frowned, holding her own pain back, and wrapped her arms around him.  He cried for a while, and she just held him.  It wasn’t often in their lives together that he _ever_ let go.  The last time had been about the trauma of it all, the nearness and shock, the physical damage.  This was more healing, in a sense.  She curled her fingers in his hair, rubbing her other hand slowly up and down his shaking back, as he whimpered about what it had been like down there, buried, dying alone, fearing he’d never see them again.  She let him have that, stayed firm so that he didn’t have to.  She let him quietly cry.  And when he was finally done, when he pulled back, she smiled and wiped his tears away with her thumbs.  Then she did kiss him, hard and full of love.  “It’s all alright.”

He nodded.  His cheeks were red, his eyes raw, but he gave a real smile.  “I know.”

She kissed him again and held him tight, let him breathe through the last of his pain.  Then she cuddled close and showed him the pictures of the boys, the ones with them and their mess explosion (at which he quietly laughed and lightly chided her for giving him a hard time for all the messes he’d allowed to occur).  The videos of James and Joseph playing Avengers.  Some things had changed, but others never would.  Steve sniffled, wiping his eyes some more, and finally let himself get past it.

The next morning, Natasha slept in.  She hadn’t meant to but apparently the events of the day before had been more draining than she’d realized.  She drifted awake to vague memories of Steve kissing her goodbye when the sun had barely been up and the world had been gray.  Vague memories of his hand on her cheek, of his warm, strong smile.  But when she opened her eyes, he was gone already, and Joseph was curled up in bed with her instead, having escaped his crib yet again.  She stared at the ceiling of their room, a slight ache in her chest.  A little knot of worry was there that wasn’t ever going to go away, not ever again.  She could deal with it.

She took Joseph downstairs with her.  The house was quiet, but it wasn’t bothersome.  James was watching television, his cars and action figures strewn all over the living room floor.  Joseph immediately ran to join him.  On the kitchen counter there was the pie plate.  The pie was almost all gone, _all of it,_ save for a single piece.  There was a note next to it with Steve’s neat handwriting.  _“Call you when I get there.  Thanks.  You’re the apple of my eye.”_   It was subtle, a small thing written between the words.  His bad jokes and ridiculous puns.  His strength and determination.  His lighthearted devotion.  He was alright.  _He was fine._  

At the bottom of the page, there was something else.  Shaking her head, she smiled.  _“PS: Pie was delicious.  James and I saved you a slice.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra special thanks to the amazing [lbs29](lbs29.tumblr.com) for the incredible artwork for this chapter!


	41. The Way I See You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** So this answers a prompt from [adorationamy](http://adorationamy.tumblr.com) for Natasha's birthday (Scarlett Johansson's birthday, but still :-)). Steve is such a sweetheart…

There were times that Natasha absolutely despised her life.  She despised being an assassin, a spy, a SHIELD agent.  Once, not long ago in fact, being a spy had been all she’d ever known.  She’d been highly trained by the Red Room to be an assassin, and she’d excelled at it.  However, because she’d been the asset, the weapon and the killer, she’d never quite realized the extent of the planning and preparation that went on behind the scenes.  Her handlers had, for lack of a better word, _handled_ it, locating her targets, tracking them and analyzing their patterns to identify the best times to strike, gathering intelligence and coordinating her missions.  Now, as one of SHIELD’s best, _she_ was often in charge of that.  She was the one who met with the information analysts, the STRIKE commanders, the organizational higher-ups.  There was a reason “logistics” was one of the things for which SHIELD stood, after all, and there was a great deal of it.  It often took days, sometimes weeks, to properly prepare for a complicated operation.  She was smart and quick, so she had no problem doing what needed to be done.  However, she didn’t much thrive in this kind of work, not like Sitwell and Hill did, not like Coulson had.

As much as she didn’t care for the all the preparation, though, it was always _worse_ when said mission didn’t go according to plan.  Afterwards there was the obligatory assessment of the blame.  The soldiers and spies in the field blamed the handlers for faulty intel or defunct battle plans.  The handlers blamed the soldiers and spies for not carrying out their orders correctly, for mistakes made in the heat of the moment.  It was a common thing whenever anything went south.  Sometimes there was simply nothing to be done for it; things just went wrong.  Things were unpredictable and unknowable, no matter how much data you’d gathered and analyzed, no matter how many times you simulated and practiced, no matter what you did.  In their line of work, mistakes were sometimes unavoidable.

Like this.  Fury had assigned her to work with Barton, planning a raid to Pakistan to shut down a terrorist group that had gotten its hands on some of the stolen Chitauri weaponry.  It became obvious during the prep for the mission that this particular band of thugs was too violent and evil to be allowed to escape, so the objectives had changed from simply securing the weapons to doing that and arresting the men.  The two assassins had worked closely with the Hub to isolate the best time for the assault, running through the data for nearly a week.  She’d been incredibly busy with it, so much so that she hadn’t had much time for Rogers, to whom she’d been assigned as a partner not long ago.  Fury hadn’t wanted Steve involved, figuring this op might be a little too much for him considering he’d only been with SHIELD for a couple of months now and was still easing into the twenty-first century.  He’d been sent with the STRIKE Team on a peacekeeping operation to Palestine while she had gone into Pakistan with Clint and their backup.  Things hadn’t gone _exactly_ according to plan, and she’d realized the second they’d gone in that their intel wasn’t accurate.  A far larger nest of terrorists had awaited them, a larger nest that was better entrenched than they’d anticipated, which had led to things spiraling out of control, which had then led to a protracted stand-off between SHIELD and the bad guys, which _in turn_ had led to a fair bit of collateral damage and a hostage situation.  No one had died, and no one had been seriously hurt, but it had been a tense and difficult mess.

Now she was back in the States, tired, sore, exhausted, and dirty.  It was cold and raining, a dismal November night, as she tiredly plodded through the Triskelion after a debriefing she really hadn’t wanted to attend.  Fury had been displeased, his eye narrowed with the cold, exacting glare he had when he was seriously unsatisfied but didn’t want to directly say it.  She wasn’t sure who he was blaming.  Her.  Clint.  They’d led the mess, made the calls in the field, been in charge of the op’s design.  But they hadn’t gathered the information, so the agents in charge of that were under fire, as well.  Also the handlers at the Hub, who’d been trying to control the disaster from afar, were on Fury’s hit list.  Basically everyone even remotely involved with this catastrophe was fearing for his or her life.  It was not a good day to be an agent of SHIELD.  And this on top of the misery of the mission itself and all the hard work and long hours before it…  What a way to end the week.

So needless to say she wasn’t in the best of moods.  After the dressing down, everyone with his or her bruised egos and battered self-esteem had parted ways.  Clint had been grouchy, darkly muttering a few perfunctory “are you okay”’s before heading home to his family.  That had left her alone, which was just as well.  She was looking forward to taking her aggressions out on a punching bag down in the gym, despite how tender some of her bruises were.  Back in the Red Room, failure would never have bothered her so much.  Of course, she wouldn’t have let the situation get as serious as it had because she would have reacted with deadly force instead of allowing herself to be pinned down in a senseless stand-off to avoid killing her enemies or innocent bystanders.  She wouldn’t have failed to begin with, wouldn’t have let herself be cornered.  She still found it difficult to work within the constraints of SHIELD’s global mission and overarching morals.  On days like today, it bothered her more.

She found an empty locker in the gym and stripped out of her uniform.  Changing into workout clothes, she pulled her hair into pony tail, wrapped up her hands, grabbed a bottle of water, and headed out into the empty gym.  All of the state of the art equipment was dark and idle, and she stalked past it to the boxing area.  A few bags hung off to the side.  She picked one and went at it.  In short order, she was consumed by it, the rhythm of her fists on the leather, the light steps of her feet, the pace of her heart and the push and draw of her breath between her lips.  The comfort of physical exertion, distant from the shame and frustration.  Even the burn of her injuries was almost pleasant.  She sunk into it, let herself go, until she was hitting harder and faster, until she was lost in it, until someone called her name–

“Natasha, whoa!”

She whirled, fists raised, prepared to attack whoever was behind her.  It was just Rogers.  He was dressed in khaki jeans and a polo shirt.  She was pretty sure she had helped him pick those out because they looked more modern.  His hair was neatly brushed but a little damp.  He’d probably just gotten back from his own mission.  His eyes were a little wide, a little uncertain, so despite how annoyed she was (at everything, the interruption included), she dropped from her fighting stance, lowering her hands.  “What?”

“You okay?”

She didn’t want to snap at him.  Really, she didn’t.  He didn’t deserve it.  He’d had _nothing_ to do with this whole fiasco, so there was no reason to treat him like he was.  Therefore she caught herself, bit her sharp tongue and swallowed down the acid of vitriol.  She stood there, breathing heavily, feeling gross because she was covered in dirt and sweat with her hair sticking to her forehead where it had come loose of the ponytail.  Gross and tired and sore and baleful and _frustrated_.  She wasn’t okay.  “Fine.”

Steve seemed not to believe her, but he nodded all the same.  They were silent a moment, him appraising her with those earnest blue eyes of his.  They’d only been partners for a couple months now, and where his ignorance (and innocence) had bothered her a great deal once, she was starting to appreciate it more.  He was a phenomenal soldier, a fantastic leader, an asset to SHIELD in every sense of the word.  And he was a good friend, a good man.  She’d been a little unhappy with having to babysit him (for lack of a better term) at first, but now she was enjoying it.

Most of the time.  Right now she didn’t want to deal with him, not with his concern or shallow condolences or (worse) his own condemnations for her mistakes.  Her curt reply (and brusque return to her workout) didn’t much dissuade him from staying though.  They still didn’t know each other all that well, and he wasn’t the best at taking hints.  “I, um…  I heard about what happened.”

“Did you now?” she snapped, hitting the bag hard enough to swing it.

She felt him nod.  “Raw deal.”

“Yep.”

“Sometimes this doesn’t work.”  She glared at him, but he shrugged.  “I know.”

“Well, it’s working for me.”  She purposefully ignored it, though, and she purposefully hit the big faster and harder, hard enough that her knuckles hurt.  She knew she shouldn’t, but it was difficult to stop.  He just stood there and watched her, and while she normally wasn’t bothered by something like that, right now it made her extremely uncomfortable.  She carried on a few seconds more, determined not to succumb to it, but it was too hard and she didn’t have the patience to maintain her normal mask of equanimity.  “Did you want something?  Because I’m not in the mood for much right now.”

He faltered for a moment, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing.  Again, a tiny part of her felt bad.  Mostly she just wanted him gone.  “I just…  Um.”  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him coloring brightly.  She’d never met someone who blushed quite like he did, which was ironic considering the public image of Captain America.  Calm and commanding, the pinnacle of human perfection.  That wasn’t Steve Rogers, she was learning.  Well, in some ways it was.  All the ways that mattered.  But Steve Rogers got embarrassed and unsettled.  A lot.  All of his hesitancy shattered into a smile a second later, and he thrust something at her.  “Happy birthday.”

 _What?_   Shock rolled over her, though none of it reached her face.  She stared at what he was offering, a small, thin box he’d obviously been holding behind his back.  He’d wrapped it in simple silver paper with a white ribbon around it and tied in a bow on its top.  She was utterly stupefied.  First, she didn’t think she’d _ever_ gotten a birthday present before.  Not like this.  Clint had suggested once or twice that his family would like to celebrate her birthday with her, but she’d always turned it down.  As a little girl in the Red Room, things like birthdays had been more than forbidden.  They’d been _nonexistent_ , something of which she’d really had no knowledge until coming to SHIELD, that one received gifts, love, and attention on one’s birthday.  So there was that.  Moreover, she’d never told _anyone_ her when her birthday was.  Clint knew (and he’d forgotten today, not that they hadn’t been busy and not that that bothered her, either.  And she’d snapped at him in the past about mentioning it, so you have to sleep in the bed you make).  It was on her personnel file, she was certain.  But other than that…  This didn’t seem possible.  “How did you…”

He practically beamed.  “I have my ways,” he replied smartly.  “You might not think I’m cut out to be a spy, Agent Romanoff, but I know how to get information when I need it.”

It wasn’t as if she’d gone out of her way to keep her birthday hidden, per se, but she had no idea how he’d found out.  Had Clint told him?  She didn’t think Steve had even talked with Clint since New York, not about anything substantial anyway.  Had he pressured someone else?  Had he had Stark hack SHIELD’s personnel files or something?  It was clear he wasn’t going to give her any more than what he had, which she found both annoying and intriguing.  She was simply going to have to take the fact that he’d outwitted her (not that this was a game or anything, but somehow that was what it felt like).  He’d learned something about her that she hadn’t offered, hadn’t controlled, hadn’t even fathomed he would learn.  She just had to accept it.

And she had to accept his gift.  He held it out to her, patiently waiting for her to take it.  Not pressing or demanding, but watching with very open eyes.  Generous and friendly.  She hesitated.  Again, this wasn’t something with which she had much experience, so taking _anything_ from him felt strange.  She didn’t like this sort of frivolous nonsense.  She didn’t like being indebted or beholden to anyone.  She didn’t care for the expectations and exposure that came from these sorts of social exchanges.  Most of all, she didn’t _know_ him.

But she took it, all the same.  She wanted to.  She knew that at least.  Quirking a little, surprised smile that was wholly genuine, she held the small box in her wrapped hands.  It felt strange, accepting a gift.  “Go ahead,” he coaxed after a hesitant moment.  “Open it.”

She did, untying the bow before sliding her forefinger under the tape to loosen it.  She pulled the wrapping away, excited (she wasn’t going to admit that).  There was a cardboard box in there, which she opened as well.  Inside that, nestled on a bed of white tissue paper, there was a drawing.  It was obviously done with charcoal, a black and white figure on a white piece of paper.  She turned the box around so that the picture was upright.  It was a ballerina, caught in time by the strokes and lines.  The figure’s arms were aloft, tapered fingers and elegant curves, the long lines of her legs beneath her.  She was mid-leap, the silk of her skirt seemingly soft and touchable on the page, the power of her muscles real and potent.  She could almost see the motion of it all, picture it, how it would flow, the languid twists and turns.  Someone very talented had done this.  There was so much detail, so much elegance and grace, so much strength.  It was beautiful.

And she didn’t understand.  Then she looked at the ballerina’s face.  She didn’t recognize it at first, though not because it wasn’t obvious.  Stunned, she shook her head.  It couldn’t be.

But it was.  Undeniably, it was.  _This is me._

The lush, wavy hair.  Her distinct nose.  Her jawline and cheekbones.  The angle of her features.  Her eyes.  They’d all been recreated with pained, almost reverential care.  _She was beautiful._ Absolutely stunning.  That confused her even more.  No one here had seen her dance really, let alone had the opportunity to draw a portrait of her like this.  She would have had to pose, to hold this stance to allow the artist the time to reproduce it with this level of incredible detail and accuracy.  Surely she would have remembered that.  It just wasn’t possible.

 _But it was._   In the lower left corner, there was something written.  _SGR._   She furrowed her brow, perplexed.  Then it clicked.  _SGR._   Steven Grant Rogers.  _He’d_ drawn this.  But he’d only seen her dance just that once a month or so ago, and then just for a few moments only.  “How…” she whispered.

He smiled.  “I’ve got a good memory.”

She looked up at him, grinning herself.  “Apparently.”  She’d read that once in his file, though it had been a fact she’d tucked away and not really considered.  Rogers had once wanted to be an artist, back in Brooklyn before he’d become Captain America.  He’d even gone to art school.  And the serum had afforded him photographic memory, so she supposed this made sense.  It was just so amazing.  Nobody had ever given her anything like this before.  She didn’t quite know how to feel.

What he said next, though…  This shocked her to her core.  “I thought this might help you see yourself the way I see you.”  He didn’t add anything more, didn’t qualify that or explain further.  She recalled then what he’d said that night, the night that he’d seen her practicing.  She’d said it wasn’t real, her talent as a dancer, the way she moved, the way she looked.  All of it had been manufactured by the Red Room for an awful cause.  It was a cover for murder, an assassin’s lie, a mask.  _“It’s not just a cover.  You’re a beautiful dancer.”_  He smiled again.  “Figured you might need a pick-me-up after today.”

This was far more than just that.  Did he even realize?  She looked at the drawing, entranced by what he’d done.  Maybe she should have been upset; this should be something that riled her, something frivolous and presumptuous and wholly uninvited.  But why feel that way?  Nobody had _ever_ given her anything like this, nothing this personal and exquisite and meaningful.  Why not appreciate it?  So what if they didn’t know each other?  He’d drawn her.  _He’d drawn her._

No, she knew how that made her feel.  There was no denying it.  She didn’t _want_ to deny it.  Not at all.  And there was no denying that she saw him differently now.  This one small act…  He’d changed in her eyes, and there was no changing that.  _She didn’t want to._ “Thank you,” she murmured.

He smiled softly.  “You’re welcome.”

They were quiet for a moment, this connection between them that hadn’t been there before tentatively forming in the silence.  Natasha stared at the picture a bit longer in awe (awe she was pretty sure she wasn’t hiding, and what was more, she didn’t care).  Then she looked up to stare at him.  Now he was blushing again, all his confidence of the moments before fading.  He cleared his throat nervously.  “I was, um…”  His voice was loud in the silence, and that seemed to rattle him more.  “Well.  I mean, I wanted to know…”  He rubbed the back of his neck, going red, and she didn’t know whether to be amused or to take pity on him.  “I just thought…  I mean, it’s your birthday.  Did you want to…  If you’re not busy.  I don’t want to intrude on–”

“You’re really terrible at this, you know,” Natasha said with a quiet, gentle laugh.

Steve smiled dopily.  “I know.  Let me try again.  Do you want to go out and get something to eat?”

They hadn’t done much together since that very night where he’d seen her dancing, where she’d taken him to get dinner.  The second he asked, something inside her actually fluttered in excitement.  Like when she’d opened her gift, but even _more_ pronounced.  This was new, so very different from the thrill she often felt while flirting or manipulating men to her own ends.  This was timid and sweet.  Precious, like the drawing she was holding.  Something he was giving her.  Some part of him he wanted her to have.  And that was so sudden and amazing and _empowering_ that she couldn’t help herself.  It was too much to process, to let into her pounding heart, so she smiled and teased.  “This a date, Rogers?  Kind of fast for me.”

“No,” he said quickly, but she didn’t miss the flash of hurt in his eyes.  “Oh, no.  No.  That’s fast for me too, Romanoff.  This is just because it’s your birthday.  You know, part of your gift.”  His easy smile came back.  “If you want.  It was a nice end to a rough day last time.  Thought I could return the favor.”

She didn’t even have to think about it.  “I think I’d like that.”

Seeing him so happy and pleased with himself made _everything_ worth it, even if the evening turned out to be as terrible as her day had been.  It was far, _far_ from that, though.  He took her to get pizza.  They ate in a little restaurant not far from the Triskelion that she’d never known was there.  Apparently he’d done some exploring in his few weeks living in DC, a fact which surprised her (although it shouldn’t have, since she’d told him to go out and get the lay of the land).  Dinner was delicious, filled with good food, pleasant talk, laughs and beer and the pleasant shroud of anonymity.  Then he brought her to an ice cream parlor, where he had a cone of chocolate and she chose one of mint chocolate chip.  He talked about Brooklyn, about the things he and his best friend Bucky used to do, about his mother and Bucky’s parents and the places they’d gone as kids and the adventures they’d had together.   It was really nice, listening to him talk, watching him enjoy his cherished memories, _feeling_ him trust her.  Being Steve and Natasha rather than Captain America and Black Widow or two Avengers or two SHIELD agents.  On this night, with him, all of her cares were distant.  All of her many mistakes.  Her quest for redemption.  She sat and listened to him and enjoyed him and had a wonderful time.  She was his friend, and it came so easily.

Later that night, she lay in her bed alone in her apartment.  Her bad day was forgotten, erased by him.  Her troubled heart was alight.  For the first time ever, she appreciated her birthday.  She stared at the picture he’d drawn of her, admiring just how he saw her.  Her thumb swept over the letters on the bottom of the page.  _SGR._

She rolled over and set the picture to her nightstand, loving everything about what she saw, what she felt, _who_ she was.  Just for now, she felt perfect.  That was what he’d given her.

She let her happiness and giddy exhilaration and girlish anticipation go, let it roll over her, leaving her warm and sweetly wondering.  Flopping back down with a sigh, she grinned broadly into the darkness.  She’d definitely need to go buy a frame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, thanks to the amazing [vbprodz](http://vbprodz.tumblr.com) for more amazing romanogers artwork!


	42. Thanksgiving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Best wishes and enjoy!

Joe liked Thanksgiving.   It was probably a little odd.  Most kids loved Christmas, and he did, too, of course.  However, Thanksgiving was special to him, that special thing had to do with Mom.  It had started when he’d been a baby.  His earliest memories of the holiday involved him sitting on the floor of the kitchen in their house or at the table while his mother cooked.  He very distinctly recalled thinking she was some sort of magician, making things from nothing.  He also remembered wondering if she was a dancer, because while she created all these things that looked wonderful, smelled amazing, tasted even better, and brought everyone together, she was so graceful.   So elegant.  She whirled around the kitchen, flawless in everything she did, perfect with everything she made.  He could vividly picture what that looked like, how incredible he’d thought it was.  Mom was absolutely astonishing, how she did all this without missing a step while entertaining and taking care of her family.

Now he was eleven, and he still thought the same.  She was amazing every day, of course, with everything she did.  Fighting as an Avenger.  Running their household.  Standing strong for their family.  She cooked and cleaned and gave so much of herself.  She was Black Widow to so many people, cold and calculating and deadly, but to them she was simply Mom.  And she was perfect.  Thanksgiving was one of those holidays where it really showed.  She took a lot of pride in it, making sure everything was just so.  She made Thanksgiving wonderful, and that was the biggest reason he appreciated it so much.  Sure the food was delicious and having their friends and family around was definitely nice (it was rare they were all gathered in the same place nowadays), but this was why he loved it so much.  Seeing Mom bring their family together.  Seeing Mom shine as _Mom_ , not as anything or anyone else.  He didn’t think James saw that quite as well as he did.  He didn’t even think Dad did sometimes.  And this wasn’t to say that Dad and James didn’t appreciate Mom; Joe knew they did a whole lot.  There was just something about today that was _his_.  He loved his father dearly (of course he did), but like how Jamie was closer with Dad, he was closer with Mom.  He always had been.  Thanksgiving was one of those days where he always felt that deeper connection, and he really liked that.

This Thanksgiving was turning out to be a really quiet one.  In years past they’d had everyone over, but this year Mom had opted for something quieter and tamer.  It made sense.  Uncle Clint and Aunt Laura were busy with their own family, since Cooper was in college now and this would be his first Thanksgiving home after leaving for school.  Uncle Tony and Aunt Pepper were taking Maria out west to spend the holiday in Malibu; Maria was a very precocious, very curious four, and Tony and Pepper had decided to make a vacation of the upcoming holidays, starting with Pepper’s family out in California before heading on a month long journey around the world.  Uncle Thor and Aunt Jane were in Asgard, and Uncle Bruce was busy on one of his many humanitarian trips to an underprivileged country.  That basically left Uncle Bucky and Uncle Sam, both of whom were at the Rogers’ house for dinner.  It would be a smaller affair, and though Uncle Tony and Uncle Clint would certainly be missed, Dad was closest to Sam and Bucky, so this felt intimate.  Like just their family as it always was.

And just like it always was, Mom was busy cooking while everyone else was busy playing.  Joe always felt just a bit bad when she was working and no one else was, though she had never once complained about it in all these years.  Out in the backyard there was a game of football going (an alternative to watching it, which they’d done for a while over some bowls of chips and hors d’oeuvres until physical activity became more appealing).  Joe had participated for a while, but, frankly, it was hard to keep up with Dad, Jamie, and Uncle Bucky.  He was faster and stronger than an average person thanks to the serum but not as fast or strong as his brother and father.  Despite their family’s hopes, his “situation” had never quite corrected itself.  He was still smaller, still not as powerful (not physically, anyway – his parents were always quick to remind him that power wasn’t always defined by one’s strength and stature, and heroes were people who did the right thing when it was needed and that was it).  He tried not to let it bother him, but it was hard not to when James was outplaying him in every way imaginable as he usually did.  And Jamie hit too hard, played too rough.  He usually did that, too.  He and Dad hardly had to try, and Joe knew they never did it on purpose, but it stung a little all the same.  Joe was never going to be _as_ good as they were, at least not at stuff like this.  He’d gotten over it well enough, but he didn’t like to be reminded sometimes.  And he didn’t like feeling bad about it or making them feel bad about it.  It was no one’s fault, and he was glad for what he had.  But it certainly diminished his interest in any sort of physical competition.  He and Uncle Sam had sat and watched for a while as Uncle Bucky passed the football and Jamie caught it and Dad tackled him.  Sam had made some comment about being too old for this stuff, and Joe had tried not to notice.  He’d eventually sent Joe in to find him a beer, and Joe had been all too glad to comply.

Which led him to Mom.  She was… _not herself_.  It wasn’t overly obvious, but as she asked how the game was going, Joe noticed immediately that something was off.  First, she didn’t listen to his answer.  That was odd because even when it didn’t seem like Mom was listening, she _always_ was.  It was impossible to sneak _anything_ by her; he and Jamie had learned that plenty of times in the past.  More than that, though, the customary grace and elegance she’d always had, the way she’d danced through making this meal like it was easy and thoughtless…  It wasn’t there.  She seemed flustered and out of sorts.  Things were disorganized on the counters and the island (well, disorganized for her, which was probably extremely organized for anyone else).  The kitchen wasn’t spotless.  Again, it was all really subtle, but the way she almost _directed_ things into making themselves, the utensils and the ingredients…  It wasn’t right.  She stood in the center of their massive kitchen, hands on her hips, apron a bit askew, chewing her lower lip as she thought.  “Mom?” Joe prompted.

“What?”  She turned around and regarded him, but he could see it in her eyes.  She was confused about something.  Not with it.  Not _perfect._

Joe closed the fridge with a quiet rattle, setting Uncle Sam’s bottle of beer to the counter beside it.  He stepped closer to her.  Even as short as he was, he was still getting as tall as she was.  James was already quite a bit taller.  “Mom?  You okay?”

Mom seemed to snap out of it finally, those sharp eyes focusing on him.  “Yeah.  Yes, I’m fine.  Just…  Can you help me find the salt?”

Joe regarded her worriedly.  “Something wrong?”

Mom sighed heavily, looking around again.  She was tired and a tad harried.  A bit overwhelmed.  “Other than me making a disaster of the meal this time?  No.”  She let her hands slap against her thighs.  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.  Scatter-brained, I guess.”

“You do too much,” Joe responded.  “You always do, Mom.”

She gave him a weary smile.  “It’s not a bother.”

Joe knew that.  It didn’t bother her.  It never did.  That was who she was.  People thought Captain America was the self-sacrificing one, and that was definitely true.  He was.  He’d do anything for his family, for innocent people everywhere.  But so would Black Widow.  Joe had realized that as well many years ago.  Even before he’d really known what it meant he’d understood that his mother _gave._   Her way was more subtle, done quietly and without flair or attention.  Again, this was something that no one outside their family saw.  That always bothered him a little, too, just like the fact that she did most the work this day.  Anything he could do to help, he would.  So he went over to the counter and searched through the many canisters of spices and ingredients to find the sea salt.  It was right in front of her, so she frowned and grunted in annoyance.  “Thanks.”

“Have Dad cook this year,” Joe offered.  It was Thanksgiving, after all.  Joe knew how it went.  Roast the turkey (which was already in the oven).  Peel and boil the potatoes.  Mash them (Dad usually did that anyway).  The desserts were already done, so Dad didn’t have to deal with that.  As much as Dad’s poor culinary skills had been a running joke in their family for forever, his atrocious baking abilities were even more lampooned.  Still, he could manage this.  Joe had seen Mom do it every year (sometimes twice if they had turkey again on Christmas) so he knew the ins and outs of it like the back of his hand.  There was no need for her to handle everything this time.  _Or any time._ “Come on.  How much damage can he do?”

Mom quirked a real smile and added a pinch of salt to the stuffing she was making.  “You seriously want to find out?  Hand me that please.”

Joe reached for the little container of sage.  “You deserve to go sit down for once.”

Mom stared at him in surprise a moment before shaking her head.  “Oh, no.  No, baby.  It’s fine.  I like cooking.”  She sprinkled the sage on the bread and sausage.  “Things just aren’t going my way today, that’s all.  The pumpkin pie cooked faster than I thought, so it’s burned.  And the apple pie collapsed a little.  I’ve been making that recipe since you were a baby.  I don’t know what I did wrong this time.”  Joe looked at where she gestured to the island over her shoulder.  The apple pie was maybe a little droopier than normal, but it was hardly noticeable.  The pumpkin pie was perhaps somewhat tanner than it should have been, the crust too brown and dry-looking, but so what?  It was probably still delicious.  Mom tended to be a bit of a perfectionist about, well, _everything_.  As the director of the biggest intelligence organization in the world, she had to be.  And she ran the Avengers.  Well, Dad technically ran the Avengers on the battlefield, but she was the one who ran SHIELD.Ergo, _she_ ran the Avengers.  Her attention to detail was unparalleled, and it showed in all that she did.  “I forgot to buy the kind of apples I need for the stuffing, so I had to use the leftovers from the pie.  I also forgot to buy heavy cream.  At least we have half and half.  And I burned myself on top of all of that.”

Joe’s brow furrowed in worry.  “Mom–”

“It’s fine,” she dismissed, waving her hand at him.  There was a band aid on her ring finger.  She sighed again, pausing as she mixed the dressing.  “It’s just not going my way this year.”

Joe watched her go back to it, aching just a little inside.  “Is there anything I can help with?”

She blew a loose lock of red hair out of her eyes.  “Not right now.  You could come back with your brother, though, in a couple of hours to set the table.  We should be eating around three.”

“Oh.  Okay.  Did you make any _pirozhki_?”

Mom smiled, and this one was very genuine but also a little forlorn and apologetic.  “No.  Didn’t have time.”  Joe’s spirits fell just a bit more at that.  He loved his mother’s cooking; everything she made was phenomenal.  However, her Russian dishes always had a special place in his heart.  James wasn’t as much of a fan of it, but Joe and Dad loved it whenever she cooked something from her homeland.  She never spoke much of her life before she’d married Dad.  Joe got the impression, even as young as he was, that it had been a hard one.  Still, there was love there in those things she made.  Comfort foods and things that reminded her of her youth.  _Borscht_ and _golubtsy_ and _pelmeni_.  She’d given that to her sons, built memories of love and security around those dishes, and Joe could always taste the care and devotion in every delicious bite.  While they celebrated Thanksgiving with the traditional fare, she’d always added hints of her Russian ancestry into the meal before.  She took special pride in that, so discovering that it wasn’t happening this year was saddening.  It felt like a jinx almost.  “Go back out and play.  I’ve got this.”

Joe wasn’t convinced.  Frankly, he didn’t want to go, and not just because he enjoyed helping.  Mom just seemed like she needed a break, and it felt wrong to walk away when he knew that.  Still, he collected up the beer bottle and walked out of the kitchen.  He glanced over his shoulder, watching for a second as she went back to it, before heading back outside.

An hour later it started to rain, so the football players came back in and resumed watching the games on the TV.  Joe had been drifting between the competition turned wrestling match outside and the kitchen, finding excuses to come back to check on Mom (even going so far as to actually offer to get Jamie a snack).  Things seemed to be going okay, though she seemed even more flustered and tired.  He’d said some things to Dad, trying to hint without being outright about his worries, but Dad had been rather engrossed with Uncle Bucky and Uncle Sam.  He did check in on Mom, but Mom had put up her sweet smile and that look she always had for him.  The strong one that Dad always took at face value despite them being married for sixteen years.  Dad and Jamie both had the propensity to be a little oblivious, thinking with their hearts rather than their heads, but Joe was more perceptive.  Mom grinned and kissed Dad and told him everything was fine and she didn’t need help, and Dad immediately believed her.  He brought out another tray of food and joined the others in the living room to enjoy the football game.  “Mom,” Joe called again, “are you sure you don’t need help?”

She was getting the potatoes washed.  “It’s fine.”

“I don’t mind peeling those.  I can do it fast,” Joe promised.

Mom gave that knowing smile of hers.  “I know you can.  But go enjoy the game.  I can do this.”

He went.  Not long after, though, something began to wail.  They’d been lounging on the couches, Joe himself on the floor between the coffee table and the sectional, munching on some chips and finally getting into the game, when the alarm went off.  Everyone jolted, horrified and not recognizing it for what it was.  _The smoke detector._   A horrified cry from the kitchen had Dad vaulting over the back of the couch, and he sprinted through the hallway.  Joe and Jamie shared a concerned look before running after.  Equal parts panic and worry had Joe reeling as he thundered into a smoky kitchen.  _Oh, no._

Dad already had the fire extinguisher from beneath the sink, and he was pulling the safety pin and aiming the nozzle at the stove.  The white billows poured over the grease fire raging in the oven.  There were huge flames, lapping dangerously over the roasting pan inside, engulfing the entire stove.  Obviously a grease fire had started by the heating coils, and it had very quickly spread out of control.  Maybe Mom hadn’t realized it was occurring, and when she’d opened the oven door, the influx of oxygen had just been fuel to the flames.  Joe watched in shock as his father put out the blaze, pushing his mother back.  For a few long seconds he just sprayed and sprayed, coating everything to suffocate the fire.  When it was over, he sighed tensely, setting the red canister to the floor with a thud beside him.

Smoke filled the kitchen.  It was thick and pungent, and Joe coughed, standing closer to his brother as the shock of the moment faded.  Uncle Bucky and Uncle Sam were behind the both of them, hands on their arms and shoulders like it might be dangerous yet.  It wasn’t.  The sudden fire was out.  But with the relief of that came the sinking realization that Thanksgiving dinner was completely ruined.  The turkey, where it wasn’t coated in chemicals, was a charred, burned mess.  The pot of boiling potatoes on the range was equally ruined.  Everything else on which Mom had been was in a similar sad state.  The counters around them were just absolutely soaked in grease and the contents of the extinguisher.  It was a huge, sad mess.

Dad didn’t care, though.  He turned to Mom, grabbing her and forcing her to step back further.  “Nat, are you okay?  Nat?”  Mom was white, very clearly shaken by how suddenly things had spiraled out of control.  She nodded, staring at the remains of her meal.  Dad looked her over, fear and concern splayed all over his face.  “You didn’t get burned, did you?”

“No,” Mom gasped.  “No.  God, how stupid can I be?  I opened the door–”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dad promised, tugging her close.  “Don’t even–”

“Tried to get the turkey out.”  She shook her head, eyes wide like she still wasn’t quite processing what had happened.  She stared over Dad’s shoulder at the smoldering mess.  _Everything_ was destroyed.  The turkey.  The potatoes.  All of the stuffing was scorched.  The vegetables she’d been slicing.  The green beans and corn and salad.  _Everything._ She shook her head.  “Steve, it’s all ruined…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dad said again more firmly.  “It’s nothing.  Guys, just stay back.”  James had taken a step closer, regarding the smoking mess like he could fix it somehow.  There was no way.  With the alarms still wailing and the smoke slowly filling the house, the sad fact of that was becoming fairly undeniable.  “James, go get all the windows open.”

“I have it, Steve,” Uncle Sam said, quickly heading off to get the house ventilating.

Uncle Bucky shook his head, staring at the scorched turkey.  “Wow.”

“Did it overflow?” James asked, ignoring Dad’s orders not to get closer.

“Probably,” Uncle Bucky replied, going with him.  The two of them waved the smoke away to peer closer at the flame broiled carcass.  “It doesn’t take much grease to start a fire.”

Mom was embarrassed, horrified even.  “I put too much water in the pan,” she whispered.  “I had to have.”

Dad seemed reluctant to let her go.  “It’s not your fault.”  She didn’t believe him.  That was clear as day.  “Listen, go sit down.  I’ll get this cleaned up.”

“What about dinner, Dad?” James asked.

Dad gave him something of a stern look.  “Don’t worry about dinner right now.”

“Where are we going to get another turkey?” James asked anyway.

Bucky sighed.  He turned, folding his arms over his chest.  “Might be a store or two that’s still open.  I can go check.  But I probably oughtta do it now.  Whatever’s open’ll close up.  It’s already two.”

Dad didn’t seem to want to deal with repairing dinner right now, and that was a good thing.  Mom seemed completely defeated, shaken even.  She so rarely looked like this that it was a bit disturbing.  Dad still had her tucked to him despite telling her to leave before.  He sighed.  “Alright.  I guess you better.”

Uncle Bucky nodded.  James volunteered himself to go with, and the two of them quickly gathered coats and went off into the cold rain to find another turkey.  Joe frankly didn’t have much hope for that.  Even if they located one, the stove was pretty well unusable right now as covered as it was in the fire suppressant.  It might even be damaged.  This was a huge mess.  “Nat, go sit,” Dad softly implored again.

Mom was rattled enough that she actually did it.  That was a rare thing, Mom walking away from a battle she hadn’t won.  Joe knew she was stubborn, so strong and so undefeatable.  He’d seen it very often in the past, from debates she didn’t let Dad win to battles with the Avengers to her work with SHIELD to maintaining the order and smooth operation of their household.  She _never_ backed down.  Yet now she walked to the dining room, her shoulders slumped as she took off her apron.  He couldn’t stand to see it.  “Joe, can you get some trash bags?” Dad asked, pulling him from his morose thoughts.  “Let’s get the food out of here.”

They waited until everything cooled before removing the burned bird.  The entire roaster seemed completely unsalvageable, so into the trash bags that went as well.  The food on the counters was thrown away.  Joey salvaged the pies, getting them away from the smoke to another room.  Uncle Sam handed Dad cleaning supplies, and he went to work, washing and scrubbing.  Joe watched for a while, holding the trash bags as the two of them salvaged what they could and threw out what was destroyed.  It became obvious a little while into the process that they didn’t really need him, so he wandered out of the kitchen and went straight to Mom.

She sat alone in the dining room table.  She’d already been in the process of readying it with linens and candles and special plates, the ones she brought out every Thanksgiving.  She was staring at them now like there was no point to it.  Joe sighed slowly, lingering just outside the dining room.  “Mom?”

Mom turned around.  She still looked so… not like herself.  It was worse now, like she couldn’t believe she’d failed at something.  But she offered a small smile.  “Your dad all finished doing his hero thing?”

It was said without heat and without bitterness, but Joe couldn’t help but feel bad.  All her planning and hard work…  Gone in a matter of seconds.  “Almost.”

“Come here.”  He went.  This was her way of getting comfort: _giving_ it.  She wrapped her arms around him, planting a kiss in the mess of his hair, and sighed.  “At least I didn’t burn down the house.”

Joe grunted and pulled away.  “Mom, you didn’t do anything.”

Mom released a slow, sad breath.  “Had a bad feeling about this whole dinner.  I don’t know what it was.  Maybe that was why I couldn’t concentrate.  I don’t know.  I’ve done this so many times now.  Just never felt _right_ about it this time.  Stupid, having bad feelings about a bird.”  She leaned back, looking away.  Joe couldn’t imagine she’d be that upset.  Mom never cried.  It took _a lot_ to bring her to tears.  Dad getting so badly hurt (or so he’d been told; he’d been a baby at the time, so he didn’t remember it).  When HYDRA had taken him and Jamie.  When her good friend and mentor Nick Fury had died last year.  But right now she seemed low and troubled, maybe on the verge of sobbing.  “So much for Thanksgiving dinner.”

That was… that was _wrong_ , because there was so much to be thankful for.  He had to do something to make this right.  He was smaller than Jamie, not as fast or strong, but he was a quick thinker.  He knew that.  And Dad always told him his heart would take him to the right place.  The right place was _not_ moping in the empty, dull dining room.  It was back in the kitchen, cooking and creating and smiling and dancing.  _Effortless._   “Come on.  I’m sure we can find something to make.”

Mom gave a sad laugh.  “Not turkey.  Bucky’s hope springs eternal.  So does your father’s.”

“So what?  We don’t need turkey,” Joe replied resolutely.

She looked flabbergasted.  “It’s Thanksgiving.”

“Mom, _so what._   Does it matter what we eat?  Whether it’s turkey and mashed potatoes or whatever we have on hand?  Do we need all the usual stuff to be together?  That’s what it’s about, right?  Being together?”  She blankly stared at him like she couldn’t quite comprehend that.  Joe smiled and shrugged.  “There’s gotta be something in the kitchen we can cook.  Come on.”  Still she stared, but now the corner of her lips tugged into a smile.  He reached out his hand.  “Come _on_ , Mom.”

She finally grasped his fingers and let him (his eleven year old self) pull her to her feet.  She took a deep breath, battling with herself for a moment.  It was a more visible display than those to which he was accustomed.  More open.  But, then, he was her son.  She could be tired in front of him.  She could be defeated for a second.  She could be _not_ perfect.  When she exhaled, she stood straighter again.  “We don’t need turkey, huh?”

“No.”

“We’ll find something else?”

“Yeah.”

She nodded.  “Okay, Joey.  Let’s look.”

They went back to the kitchen.  By now, Dad had finished with most of the mess.  He’d disconnected the scorched stove from the wall.  Thankfully nothing else was damaged.  And the smoke was gone, though the smell of it still unpleasantly lingered.  Dad shook his head sadly.  “Not sure we should be using this,” he commented, glancing at the stove.  “What a year for Tony to be on the other side of the country.”

Mom’s face twitched with displeasure, once again a subtle thing that Dad seemed to miss.  Joe immediately stepped in.  “That’s okay, Mom.  We can find some other way to cook.”

Dad looked confused.  He, too, was disappointed.  “Yeah?”

Joe nodded and went to the fridge.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dad kiss Mom, really kiss her, and hold her close.  Something inside him eased a bit at that.  It always did.  There were some constants in their family.  Mom and Dad’s love for each other.  Their love for him and Jamie.  Mom’s silent strength.  And Dad taking care of everyone no matter what.  “I’ll call Buck and tell him not to bother.  Unless they can find a turkey that’s already cooked.”  He walked away, reaching in his jeans pocket for his cellphone and carrying a bag of trash.

Joe summoned Mom to his side in front of the open refrigerator.  She came a bit dazed.  “Alright, so we have a lot of food,” he commented.

She was glum.  “Nothing to replace a Thanksgiving dinner,” she muttered disdainfully.

“Sure there is,” Joe insisted.  “Come on.”

He thought for a moment, chewing his lower lip and taking an inventory.  They didn’t have the stove, but they had the grill.  And a crock pot.  And a rice cooker.  _And_ the microwave.  And the refrigerator _was_ fully stocked.  They just didn’t have enough of any one thing to feed everyone.  _So we’ll make lots of different things._   That was simple enough.  He pulled out hamburger and other vegetables.  There was leftover macaroni and cheese.  They had pork.  And they had turkey lunchmeat.  “We can make _kotleta_.”

Mom looked surprised.  “Not without the stove.”

“With the electric skillet.  And if Dad can start the grill, there’s steak.  Let’s make some rice.  We can take a pot out there and make stew or soup.”  Just the thought of a plan had him excited.  He pulled a load of stuff from the fridge and set it all to the counter.  Then he raided the pantry.  “We have a lot of stock.  And I know you don’t like frozen stuff, but there’s corn and some frozen meatballs and–”

She looked doubtful.  Her hand fell to his shoulder.  “Joey, I know what you’re trying to do, but it’s no use.  Dinner’s–”

“Dinner’s right here,” he gently interrupted, and he’d keep doing that until she realized that _she_ was the one who made Thanksgiving special, not some stupid turkey.  “Let me help, Mom.  Please.  It doesn’t have to be perfect.  It just has to be you.  It just has to be us, right?”

She stared at him a moment, and now he finally saw the light come back to her eyes.  A faint smile graced her lips.  “Alright, Chef Rogers.  Tell me what to do.”

An hour later, Bucky and James were back fairly empty-handed save for a new bag of potatoes, which Joey had Dad put on the grill.  The kitchen was alive again, and Mom was dancing.  She was following his instructions, whirling through reheating leftovers and finding new ways to cook (frying vegetables in an electric pan was new, as was heating meat in a microwave and boiling soup using the grill and the Dutch oven).  With all the windows open, the stench of the smoke was gone, and the house smelled… well, not like Thanksgiving.  Again, though, that didn’t matter.  Mom was cooking and laughing, all languid moves and grateful grins, as Joey handed her the things they needed.  She was multi-tasking, _flourishing_ in it, glowing with good cheer.  Dad brought the baked potatoes in, gutted their soft insides into a pot with a spoon, and mashed them with the mixer.  He seemed so relieved to see her happy, and when she hugged him now, it was sweeter and happier.  She made the _kotleta_ while he worked with the potatoes, and the smell of fried breading and spices permeated the kitchen.  The hamburgers were grilled.  Cheese was added and the dinner rolls were repurposed.  A new salad filled with more… unusual vegetable choices (cabbage and bean sprouts and whatever else they could find) was thrown together.  The steaming pot of soup and a platter of steaks were carefully brought inside.  Everything, as odd as it was, was coming together.

Pretty soon Joey and Jamie went to set the table, later than they’d planned but Joe just figured that meant everyone was hungrier.  The nice Thanksgiving linens and dishes were readied, and Joey nodded at the finished product, pleased.  Pretty soon they all gathered around, Uncle Bucky opening up a couple bottles of wine, Uncle Sam lighting the candles, Joe and Jamie finishing up the final preparations.  Pretty soon Dad came in, proudly bearing a massive pot of steaming mashed potatoes.  And pretty soon Mom was bringing out their glorious, random creations.

With all sorts of different plates of food around the table, American and Russian and even Italian and Asian, it was rather a sight.  Dad took his place at the head of the table and Mom sat beside him.  “Wow,” he said, taking in the array of choices.  “This is great.”

Bucky was very impressed.  “Amazing.  Tash, you whipped all this up?  How’d you do it so fast?”

Mom winked at Joey.  “I had a lot of help.  And a lot of inspiration.”

Uncle Sam smiled.  “Well, I always think turkey’s kinda boring anyway.  Why have that when you can have all this?”

Mom beamed.  “You want to say something, Steve?” she asked.

So they all bowed their heads as Dad said grace, thanking God for the food they had, for the wonderful fact that the house hadn’t burned down (to which everyone laughed, even Mom), to the fact that they were all together, happy, healthy, and safe.  For the love of his family and friends.  “And for my wife, who makes everything perfect.  Always and no matter what.”  He lifted her hand to kiss her fingers.   She smiled at him, so much love in her eyes.  Jamie groaned.  Joey just felt good.  Dad grinned.  “And I’m thankful for my son who saved Thanksgiving.”  Suddenly everyone was looking at Joey, and he just flushed with the attention.  His cheeks were positively burning.  Now Dad winked.  “Here’s to quick thinking and a load of determination.”  Bucky reached over and ruffled his hair.  “Now let’s eat.”

The dishes were passed around.  Plates were filled with the eclectic fair, with all the delicious food.  Conversation, loud and happy, filled their house.  It was just like any other Thanksgiving.  From beside him, Jamie nudged Joe under the table with his foot.  He hit too hard (he always did), but his smile was so big and so proud that Joey couldn’t care.  “Nice job, little brother,” he whispered.  “Way to be the hero.”

Joey started eating, but it was kind of hard because he couldn’t stop smiling.


	43. The Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Here we are! The long-promised Maria Stark Foundation Gala. This is going to be the first of three chapters, and each will answer a bunch of different prompts from The Obsidian Rose, Sportsfan64, and a few others. Enjoy!

This was going to be a tall order.

Steve had faced long odds before, impossible missions and battles where the chances of success were so low they were nearly nil.  But this…  Well, it was always a challenge to convince Natasha to do anything she didn’t want to do.  She was incredibly stubborn, not necessarily outwardly but once she got something in her head it was surprisingly difficult to jostle her loose of it.  Steve suspected that was due to a youth spent being molded by her handlers in the Red Room, by the cruel training she’d endured to make her be slavish to a directive rather than free-thinking.  He also believed part of it was just her, though, her inherent obstinance that had carried her from the traumatic life she’d lived as an assassin before Clint had saved her to becoming a SHIELD agent and an Avenger to where she was now, a hero in her own right.   He loved that about her, of course.  Her fiery strength and determination.  But he could do without the battle over the small stuff.

Not that this was small, mind you.  It wasn’t.  It was a huge deal.  Still, it didn’t possess the life-shattering, earth-stopping, mission-do-or-die importance she was giving it.  That was another holdout from her days as Black Widow within the Red Room, this inability she had sometimes of parsing simple emotional matters from more complex ones.  If the mission directives required discretion, subtlety, and furtiveness, then that applied to _everything_ , to things well beyond work.  Steve knew she took comfort in that.  For being very roguish about some things, Natasha liked boundaries and orders.  She liked things to be simple and predictable.  So if there was a rule that forbade fraternization among SHIELD agents (and there wasn’t, really, but it generally seemed to be frowned upon) she stuck to it.  This was why they’d been seeing each other for almost six months and _no one_ knew.

Steve was frankly surprised they’d kept it a secret this long.  He supposed he shouldn’t have been, given that he was in love with a master spy.  And it wasn’t _completely_ a secret.  Clint knew.  Clint had practically pushed them together after all, with his not-so-subtle invitation dinner last summer.  Clint had even given him the shovel speech right before then, before he’d come to the determination that Steve was good enough for his best friend.  But aside from a few quiet rumors and gossip around SHIELD, no one else was aware that Captain America and Black Widow were dating.

Of course, the term “dating” implied they actually went out on dates, which was far from the case.  They were living together now at his apartment, and they had been for many weeks.  It was wonderful, amazing, incredible having her with him so much, _coming home_ to her.  He loved it.  But they never went out together.  Not to dinner.  Not dancing.  Not to a movie.  Those were the things people did on dates nowadays, right?  He didn’t know, because he still technically had never been on one.  Sure, they’d been out together when they’d only been partners and friends.  But since their relationship had evolved into something romantic, that had stopped.  Every breakfast and dinner was shared in his kitchen.  They spent hours curled up on his couch, watching television (or engaged in _other_ activities).   They did physically leave his apartment on occasion, but it was always very platonic.  She refused to let him walk too close at the Triskelion, refused to let him be visibly supportive of her when she was hurt or upset, refused to let him touch her where others could see.  At work he was “Rogers” and she was “Romanoff” and they were partners, nothing more.  At least she’d gotten over the ridiculous nonsense she’d thought in the beginning, where they couldn’t be seen arriving or leaving the Triskelion together for fear the someone would find out they were a couple.  But kissing her in public?  An impossible dream.  And Steve was okay with some of this.  They were both very busy, often shipped off to one distant location on the globe only to find themselves immediately deployed to another upon their return.  They lived such hectic, dangerous lives that the little things, like sitting practically on top of each other and eating out of the same carton of lo mein while watching _Dancing With the Stars_ , were really nice.  Sleeping in.  Sleeping _together_.  Him singing in the shower while she put on her makeup.  Sitting quietly at his table as they completed mission reports or other paperwork for SHIELD.  And they did go to Clint and Laura’s fairly often, so that was nice.

Still, though, he was starting to feel a bit like a hermit, and that wasn’t what he wanted.  He wasn’t ashamed of what they had at all, nor was he afraid of it.  He didn’t think the former was what was bothering Natasha (at least, he hoped not), but the latter seemed likely.  Natasha rarely spoke directly of her feelings, but Steve knew her well enough to tell.  She wasn’t afraid of him, per se, but he knew she was terrified of what he symbolized.  It wasn’t so much the image of Captain America that intimidated her (though he knew she had some ludicrous insecurities that she wasn’t good enough to be in love with the man behind the hero, insecurities that he was slowly but surely dispelling).  She was afraid of what it all meant, of _being_ in love.  She’d been taught that love was a weapon, a tool to manipulate people, a weakness that could be used against her.  It had taken her a long time to retrain herself, to admit to herself that she loved him.  She’d confessed that to him one night in his arms not too long ago, voice soft and eyes tender and so open.  _Vulnerable._ Love was vulnerability to her, and she didn’t trust just anyone to see that.  Therefore it was only natural that she was wary of anyone finding out that she was, in a word (and not his word), _compromised_.

There were other facets, too.  She was a private person, and therefore she coveted her secrets.  She didn’t care for the “trite” nonsense that came with relationships, infatuation and silly affirmations of love, for dates and gifts and flowers and the like.  She’d made that clear when they’d begun seeing each other (like Steve could have thought otherwise).  Additionally, Black Widow had a reputation to protect.  Her legendary prowess as a spy hinged upon that reputation.  What would people think if they learned she was shacking up with Captain America?  Conversely, the public might not like the idea of America’s symbol of valor and wholesomeness in a relationship with an ex-KGB agent known for seducing and destroying men.  He didn’t care one bit about that, even though she kept telling him that it wasn’t so simple, that with the media the way it was nowadays, a simple, unauthorized picture could spell disaster.  They were Avengers.  They were never _not_ going to be in the public eye.

And that was the truth.  There was no escaping that people could see them.  Out on the street or in a restaurant or at work.  In battle or play.  He didn’t want to let that stop him.  This wasn’t a fling to him, what he had with her.  It never had been something he treated lightly, not even when they’d been partners and barely friends.  He’d always wanted whatever relationship he had with Natasha to last, and if that meant abiding by her wishes to take things slowly or keep it hidden, then he’d do that.  He’d coax gently, push when he thought he could, always with respect and tender understanding.  She thought she was damaged, and she was in some respects, but he didn’t care about that either.  He’d wait forever if he had to.  These last few months had been nothing short of perfect, but he already knew in his heart that he wanted _more_.  This was something beyond the physical, beyond that silly notion of love she abhorred.  He wanted so much more, everything he’d thought he’d lost.  He wanted it with her.

 _You’re getting ahead of yourself, Rogers,_ he thought as he stood outside the door to his apartment.  _Get her out on a date first._

That led him right back to that tall order.  The insurmountable odds.  Needing to find a way to convince the world’s most reluctant girlfriend to go out in public with him, not as partners or SHIELD agents or Avengers, but as a _couple_.  He’d been thinking about breaking the sacred veil of secrecy for a while now, months even.  He’d made a few light suggestions now and then about things they could do together, ranging from dinner to going to museums to hiking to shopping and everything in between.  She’d always laughed them off, brushed him off, reminded him that she wasn’t that kind of girl.  She’d hidden her discomfort with airy flirting (and by luring him into their bedroom for those “other” activities – Lord, he fell for that _every_ time).  He’d been thwarted constantly, though he couldn’t imagine she hadn’t gotten the hint.  Still, she always told him he did the best with the direct approach.  This was going to be pretty direct.

And much bigger than dinner and a movie, to be honest.  That ship had apparently sailed.  Oh, well.

He finally fished the keys out of his suit pocket and unlocked the door.  Sometime during the flight home from New York he’d briefly hoped he’d beat her here.  It had been a longshot, and frankly he wasn’t even close.  It was almost ten o’clock, and she’d probably been back for hours.  It was frustrated because he could have used the time to prepare better.  Cooked something (he was terrible at all things culinary, but having dinner ready for her would have helped).  Tidied up.  Had the long-stem roses he’d bought already in a vase (she claimed she hated flowers, but Steve knew she liked roses.  He wasn’t as unobservant as she thought).  And he would have wrapped the gift he’d gotten her, secure in the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket.  With all of this, he could have lured her into his own trap, buttered her up, and then gone in for the kill.  But this whole thing had happened on rather short notice ( _thank you, Tony_ ), so he hadn’t had time.  He was going to have to fly by the seat of his pants and just convince her.  Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside.

The apartment smelled like Italian spices and tomato sauce.  He’d had no idea (and frankly, he thought she’d been pretty surprised, too) that she’d be so good in the kitchen.  Whatever she was making was in the oven, but she was nowhere to be found.  The counters were recently washed, though, still gleaming with moisture, and the dishwasher was humming, so she couldn’t have gone far.  “Nat?”

“In here,” softly came her voice from the bedroom.

He set his keys and wallet to the table by the door and placed the flowers down on the dinette table.  Better not show her those just yet.  The floor creaked under his dress shoes, seemingly thunderous in the quiet.  His mind was racing through what he could say.  Should he just go for it immediately?  Natasha appreciated bluntness over hesitancy any day.  But, then, she might think he was pressuring her.  It wasn’t just that this was something she wouldn’t want to do, although that was bad enough.  It was something he wanted on top of it, and being at odds with her bothered him.  _Be direct, not pushy._   He could manage that.  He could–

One look at her and all cognizant thought became pretty much impossible. She was laying in their bed on her stomach, working on a tablet computer and dressed in one of his larger undershirts and underwear and _only_ that.  The white cotton was striking against her smooth, creamy skin and the unbound mass of wavy red hair cascading down her back.  It had gotten long.  He hadn’t realized that until now.  He didn’t think she was trying to look like… like _this_ , but she was succeeding remarkably well.  She glanced up at him, chin propped on her fist as her long, slim fingers danced over the touch screen.  “Hey.”

Awareness returned to other areas of his body in fits and spurts, and he swallowed through a dry throat.  “Um, hi.”

Her lips quirked into a knowing smile.  “What?”

She knew what.  Any doubt that she did died with that smirk.  He tried to play it cool.  “Nothing.  You look… _relaxed_.”

“Long day,” she offered by way of an explanation.

“Go okay?”

“Well enough.  Fury wants us to run some simulations with the STRIKE Team next week.”  Steve grimaced a little at that.  Lately they’d been doing more and more of that.  The STRIKE Team was fine, he supposed.  They were fantastic soldiers and experts at black ops like no one else in the world, but there was always something off about them.  A tad cruel.  A bit ruthless and off-putting.  Natasha noticed and softened her smile.  “How was your meeting with Stark?”

Steve loosened his tie further.  “How is everything with Stark?  Overly complicated, overly long, and overly exasperating.”  She smiled and went back to her work.  “Did you eat already?  Smells like something’s cooking.”

“That’s because something is.  I wanted to wait for you.”

Frankly, he’d been so caught up in arranging things that he’d forgot to call to let her know his flight had been delayed thanks to a mix-up with SHIELD.  Tony had ended up having his personal pilot bring him down to DC in a Stark Industries jet.  “How’d you know I’d be late?”

She cocked an eyebrow as if to say _I’m a_ _spy, Rogers._ “Threw together some stuff for ziti.  Just put it in.  Should be ready in an hour.”

“You’re a doll,” he said, coming closer.  He leaned down to kiss her.  “Don’t deserve you.”

“No, you don’t,” she said with another smirk, a smug little grin that he used to notice only when she was pleased with her skills as a SHIELD agent and fighter.  Seeing it now over something this domestic…  It was really subtle, that Black Widow was embracing cooking of all things and taking pride in crafting a meal for him, but it made him warm and excited.  Maybe this would be okay.  Exhilarated, he went in for another kiss, this one longer and more passionate, until she was squirming up to pull him closer.  She grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket, tugging him back over her until her head gently hit the pillows and he was leaning over her.  She was practically pinned beneath him, hands dancing their way up his back as he deepened the kiss more.  When he came up for air, he unwillingly smiled what he was pretty sure was a goofy smile because of his nervousness.  She narrowed her eyes quizzically.  “What?”

“Just…”  He kissed her nose.  “Stay.”

“Stay?”

“Yeah.  Right there.”  He pushed himself up to his feet and quickly went back down the hall, ignoring the confused looks she was throwing at him as he did.  He took the roses from where he’d left them.  Then he felt the pocket of his jacket for the box in there.  It hadn’t moved, of course.  The gift was one of the reasons why he was so late, and he was taking a gamble with this and he knew it, but it felt right.  He hoped she liked it.  He hoped she wouldn’t be upset with him that he’d violated a couple cardinal and unspoken rules of their courtship.  He huffed out another sigh to gather himself.  _Here goes nothing._

Back into the bedroom he went, trying not to feel like he was a mere bug wandering into Black Widow’s web.  She was still lying in their bed, eyes hazy with desire.  She’d gathered up the fleece throw and wrapped herself in it.  “Come warm me up?”  He didn’t move from the doorway, the flowers tucked behind his back.  She frowned a bit, all the desire in her gaze cooling.  “What’s with you, Rogers?”

He pulled out the gorgeous, full bouquet.  “For you.”  Her mouth fell open, and her eyes darted between the roses and his face.  She was going to object.  He could _feel_ it, so he moved faster.  “And before you say anything…”  He was across the room in two huge strides, going down onto his knees halfway there and somewhat crawling to the side of the bed.  Her face went lax with shock as he offered her the roses.  Then he dipped his hand inside his coat.  “This is for you, too.”

She took the small, black velvet box from him and opened it.  The emotions played across her face so fast he almost couldn’t read them.  “Steve…  It’s…”

“I want you to wear it,” he said, reaching inside and pulling the necklace out.  It was simple, a gold chain and a diamond pendant.  Very high quality and very expensive.  Needless to say, JARVIS (who he’d sworn to secrecy) had put him in contact with an amazing jeweler.  The diamond caught the dim, golden light of their bedroom and refracted it beautifully, twinkling brilliantly and sending color all over her palm as he laid it in there.  “I want you to wear it on Saturday night.”

He could see her getting wary.  She hid it so well, hid it from everyone, but not from him.  She smiled to hide it.  “What’s Saturday night?”

This was it.  The funny thing was, for how anxious he felt, for how his stomach was tied in knots and his heart was pounding, this wasn’t the question he wanted to be asking.  “Nat, would you be my date to the Maria Stark Foundation Gala?”

Now she looked downright shocked, which he thought was a bit strange.  He’d gone to New York, after all, to meet with the Foundation spokespeople, hence the suit he was wearing and why he’d been busy all day.  The Gala was one of the biggest to-dos nationwide, attended by influential people who had deep pockets.  A-list celebrities.  CEOs, inventors, and investors.  Politicians.  Other millionaires and billionaires.  It was extremely chic and exclusive (to Steve’s understanding, anyway), and it was the night the Foundation, which pumped money into research into children’s diseases and aiding the homeless among other noble causes, brought in most of its donations.  The night the rich people of the world gathered to show their common philanthropy.  The extravagant, black-tie affair was hosted and paid for by Tony, and Tony had asked him weeks ago if he’d give a speech for the guests.  Captain America was a huge draw, both in terms of his symbolism with the public and his sway politically.  Steve had agreed, not realizing at the time when Tony had described the event as a “fundraiser” that he was referring to this massive ball.  He’d found that out today, that he’d been somewhat tricked into this, and instead of trying to back out, he’d just gone forward.  The thought of having to be in front of so many people, of having to inspire so much generosity as to make the Gala a success, was definitely daunting.  Maybe adding the further wrinkle of bringing Natasha as his date wasn’t wise, but he wanted to.  He wanted her there with him because he wanted her support.

Mostly, though, he wanted her there with him because he loved her and he wanted everyone to finally see that.  He wanted to take a step forward.  Maybe she’d only recently told him she loved him, but he believed she’d felt that way for quite a while.  And maybe they’d only been together for six months (“officially”, even if it was only official to them), but he _knew_ he’d loved her for a lot longer than that.  He didn’t want to hide that anymore.  And he didn’t want her to be afraid.

But she was.  She was that and a tad dismayed.  He smiled disarmingly.  “I mean, if you’re not busy.  I really need a date.  It would look kind of bad if the keynote speaker didn’t have one.”

“Steve,” Natasha said, a bit breathless, “it’s beautiful, but I can’t…  It’s not…”  She sighed shortly.  “I shouldn’t be at something like that.”

“Why not?  You’ve done things like this before.”

She gave an incredulous look.  “Yeah, for work.  For missions.  I was there with a purpose.”

“You’ll be there with a purpose this time, too.”  He grinned more cheekily.  “Making me look good.  Keeping the other women off me.  You keep telling me I’m a catch.”

She tried to be sassy about that.  “Hey, don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Come on, Nat.”  He gently brushed the tousled hair back from her face.  “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“You really want me to answer that?”  He gave a little, tense shrug.  “Everyone will see us.  _Everyone_.  Events like that…  It’s a huge draw for the media.  The paparazzi will be everywhere.”

“So?”

Now she was even more doubtful.  A touch of annoyance flashed in her eyes.  “So?  Steve, you have no idea how social media works nowadays.  They see us together and you can forget about SHIELD finding out.  The whole world will know instantly.”

He kissed her gently, practically muffling her words with his lips.  Pulling away, he cupped her face and looked her right in the eye.  “ _So?_   I love you.  I don’t care who knows it.”

“I’m Black Widow,” she returned, again trying so hard to seem light and unaffected by this, but he could see the dread as clearly as he saw the color of her eyes or the shape of her lips as she faked another smile.  “Black Widow would rather be caught dead than be seen as someone’s girlfriend.”

“Funny,” Steve said, keeping this light even though that hurt his feelings a little, “because that’s _exactly_ what you are.”  She predictably balked and he kissed her stern frown away.  “You’re my girlfriend.  My best girl.”

She grimaced like hearing the word was tantamount to torture.  And she clambered for distance.  “Rogers, this isn’t just going out to dinner.  This is hardcore.  This is zero to sixty.  If we do this… there will be _no_ going back.”

“Do you want to go back?” he asked, knowing she didn’t but fearing the answer all the same.  She faltered like she’d been caught in a lie.  “Because I sure don’t.”

For a second, she just stared at him, struggling with that.  It was a familiar war.  He’d seen it play out on her face before, every time her love for him and her desire for their relationship pushed her closer into uncharted territory.  Every time her heart was at odds with what she’d been trained and her own self-defenses, she got this look, this fearful, wide-eyed sort of glaze.  “No,” she finally said.  “No.  Never.”

“Then we go forward,” he said.  “I don’t want to hide forever in the shadows.  I understand why you’re worried, Nat.  I am too sometimes.  But so what?  We can face it together.  We’ve taken on much worse than a few photographers–”

“A swarm,” she corrected.

“–than a _swarm_ of photographers. This can’t be as bad as aliens from outer space or terrorists or crazy mad scientists or deranged Norse gods.”  He smiled broadly, confidently, and shook her gently.  “Come on.  The team doesn’t even know.  Do you have any idea how hard it was to lie to Tony when he offered to find me a date?  Supermodels, he kept promising.  He probably thinks I’m crazy turning that down because I couldn’t tell him I’m already dating the most gorgeous woman in the world.”

“Flattery isn’t going to work,” she warned, but it was without any heat.

“It’s not just about the media.  It’s not about SHIELD.  I want our friends to know about us.  I want them to see we’re happy together.”  He brushed her hair back again.  He could see he was getting through, winning the battle, and he tried not to get too excited or giddy about the prospect of victory.  “I want you on my arm.  The whole room’s gonna be way too awestruck by you to remember to donate any money.  They’re not gonna be able to find their checkbooks, which I guess is counterproductive, but I don’t think I care.”

“Steve,” she murmured, shaking her head.  “I–”

“Come on, love.  Look at me.  I’m _begging._ ”  He was.  Down on his hands and knees even.  “Actually begging.  You made Captain America beg.”

At _that_ she smirked again, playfully.  “If you want me to make you beg, there are more fun ways of doing it, Rogers.”

He wasn’t going to let her do that this time, distract him like that.  “Please, Nat.”

In the quiet that followed, he could tell she was considering it.  _Really_ considering it.  Getting past her knee-jerk reaction to factor in the merits of his argument.  That was the logical approach.  Of course, then there was the realization that he loved her and wanted this, which carried far more weight than anything logical.  His feelings.  His desires.  He knew how that was, doing something you didn’t necessarily want for the sake of someone you loved.  He’d been doing it for her for weeks now, waiting and gently prodding, allowing her to find her footing with him.  Allowing her to find her comfort and her strength.

He was almost there.  He could tell by her sigh, by the glimmer of excitement growing in her eyes.  Of course, there was that stubbornness.  It was not so easily defeated.  Thus out came the last thing he’d known she would say.  And he’d known it because of his time with the USO show girls, of all things.  A common excuse for a woman to use to get out of something she didn’t want to do.  Thus he’d anticipated it.  He was pretty proud of that.  She shook her head.  “I don’t have anything to wear.”

 “Already taken care of,” he replied firmly.

She arched her eyebrow again, glancing at his suit jacket and dress shirt.  “You have an evening gown stuffed in there somewhere, too?”

He laughed lightly.  “No, but I have an in with a good friend of ours who would be more than happy to take you shopping tomorrow night.”  Confusion crossed her face again.  “Laura’s going to go with you.  Clint and I will take his kids while you gals do your thing.”

A little surprised laugh breached her lips.  “What about you?”

“Stark already took care of the tux.  Everything’s all set.  The flight up to the city.  Transportation.  Hotel.  First class treatment, he said.  For me and my date, if I, quote and unquote, grow a pair and ask someone.”  His smile softened even further, a sweet, nonthreatening thing.  “C’mon,” he cajoled again.  “It’ll be fun.”

She looked a little surprised at that, at him calling upon one of the first things she’d said to him during the Battle of New York right before he’d thrown her up to catch her ride to Loki’s portal.  She gave a bit of an uncertain smile, reaching to cup his face and sweep her thumb over his lips.  “Okay.”

“Okay?”

She nodded more enthusiastically.  “Yeah.  But only because you begged so nicely.”

 _Victory._   He leaned over the bed to kiss her again, harder and with so much love and gratitude.  She returned it, all of her timidity disappearing with her usual fiery confidence.  After a moment, he pulled away and took the necklace.  “Can I?”

“Of course.”  He reached behind her as she swept her hair away from the back of her neck.  He fumbled with the clasp – how could anything be so small? – while trying to mind his strength so as not to break it.  Finally he got it on her.  He leaned back again to appraise it, very much liking how it looked on her.  She was beautiful just like this, dressed in his shirt and that necklace.  “What do you think?” she asked, eyes twinkling almost more than the jewelry.

That was her fishing.  She knew _exactly_ what he thought.  But he didn’t care.  He’d tell her a thousand times over, every day for the rest of his life, if she wanted him to.  “Gorgeous.”

She coyly grinned, grabbing the lapels of his jacket to tug him up and over her so that she was once again pinned under his weight.  “You should see what I look like wearing it and nothing else,” she whispered into his ear.

Well, he did.  And after they dressed again in pajamas, they had dinner.  The air between them was light, fizzy with anticipation, and Steve could see her warming up to this idea second by second.  They chatted, and she actually had questions about what they’d do and where they were staying and what was going to happen at the Gala.  She was bright and sweetly excited.  Normally she was so reserved and cagey about things like this, but now her walls were down and he could see just how enthusiastic she was becoming.  To do something like this, to attend a public affair not as Black Widow on a mission but as Steve’s date…  It suited her.  She had no idea how much.

She showed him again after dinner just how much she liked being his girl.  And when she lay sleeping in his arms that night, he stared up at the ceiling.  His heart was still pounding and not just from what they’d done.  Those butterflies in his stomach hadn’t flown away.  His nerves weren’t any calmer.  He was caught between smiling like a fool into the shadows and being terrified as all get-out that he had _no idea_ what he was doing.

But he knew.  He’d known for forever.

He kissed her forehead and gently slid out from under her.  Her new necklace was across the way on his dresser, and it caught the moonlight in a pretty sparkle as he came closer.  He grabbed his suit jacket where it was on the floor by the bed and lifted it up.  Glancing over his shoulder to make sure she was sleeping, he reached into this other breast pocket.  His fingers closed over the small box inside, the _other_ thing he’d purchased from the jeweler, and he pulled it out.

He stood there, staring at it for a second.  Then he opened the lid.  The ring glittered in the light.  It was a gold solitaire, the diamond perfectly shaped and cut.  He took a deep breath.  Just thinking about it made him shaky with excitement and desire.  But that deep breath grounded him and another calmed him further.  _One thing at a time._   You didn’t win a war all at once, after all.  He smiled faintly, closing the box before quietly pulling out his sock drawer in his dresser.  Checking one last time that Natasha was soundly asleep, he tucked the ring into the back corner and buried it under socks.  Then he closed it up and went back to bed.

If everything felt right on this date…   _Our first date,_ he thought with a smile.  And if everything felt _right_ , maybe, just maybe, he’d propose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the amazing [vbprodz](http://vbprodz.tumblr.com) for the artwork for this chapter!


	44. The Dress

“How about this one?”  Laura held up a red dress on a wooden hanger that she’d pulled from the rack.  Natasha took one look at it and shook her head.  There was just too much… _stuff_ on it.  Expensive stuff but an excess of it nonetheless.  “No?”

“No.”

Laura shrugged a little and put the dress back.  There were plenty more from which to choose.  _Plenty._ Natasha looked around and marveled again.  This was far and away the fanciest shop in which she had ever been, at least of her own accord – she’d done things like this undercover, posing as a rich man’s girlfriend or some such, but this was _entirely different._   She hadn’t realized just how different until she’d stepped inside the fancy boutique with Laura and Lila (both of whom were dressed as they normally were in well-worn jeans and flowery tops, which _definitely did not_ fit in here).  This wasn’t about posing as someone’s girlfriend, about lying and pretending.  This was about embracing the truth and _being_ someone’s girlfriend.

Which meant it was difficult to act like she knew what she was doing.  Or what she wanted.  She was an expert at appearing _exactly_ as the situation required.  She could make into anything that was required of her: demure or sultry or cold and powerful.  She could be anything to anyone, everything to everyone.  But right now…  Now she had to be Captain America’s date to an expensive public function.

That seemed like a _really_ tall order.

Laura picked through the others on the rack.  There were dozens.  This was one of the most exclusive boutiques in DC.  Inside everything was polished wood and sleek, expensive furnishings.  An amazing crystal chandelier bathed the shop in a soft, warm glow.  It hung over a jewelry counter with necklaces, rings, and bracelets inside that glittered in the light, each probably thousands if not tens of thousands of dollars.  Dressing rooms, the smallest still larger than Steve’s bedroom back at his apartment, lined the central area.  Mirrors framed in smooth, shiny wood hung from the walls.  It was a chic and not at all welcoming environment (well, she supposed it would be for the socialites, wealthy wives, and powerful women of DC’s elite upper class.  For her, a poor orphan turned assassin from Stalingrad, it was nothing but intimidating).  Already the boutique’s staff had given them a few questioning if not disparaging looks, despite the fact that Pepper (with whom Steve had talked and who would keep their secret while she helped them) had arranged this and apparently was on friendly terms with the shop’s owners.  As Laura said, they’d have to get over it.  Natasha could well afford _anything_ (multiple anythings, in fact) in this place.  In addition, Steve had practically sent her in there with his wallet, to which she’d glared because he was an old-fashioned (if not chivalrous) idiot and she could afford her own gown, thank you very much.  And she’d worn things this expensive before, couture from Oscar De La Renta and Gucci and Louis Vuitton.  SHIELD typically spared no expense when sending its agents out undercover.  But, again, this was so different.  This wasn’t about looking good for her mark.

“I like this one,” Lila declared.  She was standing near a dress form where a black gown seemingly loaded with feathers and frills was on display.  Natasha smiled at her, careful not to betray just how much didn’t care for it.

“What color, Nat?” Laura asked, still busy perusing the choices.

She had no idea.  “I don’t know.”

“Oh, wow.”  Laura pulled another, and Natasha had to admit she liked this one.  It was a deep blue with a sweetheart neckline and high waist that opened up into a full gown.  Laura glanced at the tag and made something of a face.  “Pricey.”

They all were.  She wasn’t going to let that bother her.  Natasha loved Laura to death, but she was something of a country girl.  Despite Clint’s profession, she lived a simple life, so the thought of spending thousands of dollars on a gown she’d likely wear once was unfathomable to her.  Natasha turned to the shop attendant who was helping that.  “We’ll try that,” she declared.

The lady nodded and took the dress from Laura, wincing slightly at the other woman’s less than posh appearance.  Laura glared at her just a bit as she walked away, tugging Lila closer.  “What else?” she asked once the attendant had disappeared into a fitting room.

Natasha sighed softly.  “You don’t have to do this,” she reminded.

Now Laura smiled.  Her sweet disposition that had made Natasha instantly feel welcome in Clint’s home immediately put her at ease again.  “Of course, we do,” she corrected.  Her hands swept a few stray strands of Lila’s hair away where it had come loose of her braids.  “It’s not every day that you get to help an Avenger get ready for a ball.  Right, honey?”

Lila nodded enthusiastically.  “Is Steve going to take you in a carriage?”

Natasha laughed in spite of herself.  “Not quite.”

“Are you gonna dance?”

She crouched, smiling and poking Lila lightly on the nose.  “Think so.”

Lila was really pleased with that, pretending to be a princess and spinning around the shop without a care for how delicate and expensive everything around her was.  Natasha shook her head at the sweet sight, going back to the rack.  Part of her was just as excited about this.  She was frankly surprised at just how much she was.  Going out in public at Steve’s side, on his arm, letting people _see_ them together…  It was thrilling in a way she’d never anticipated.  As with most things when it came to her relationship with him, it was something she’d never realized she wanted, something she’d never known she needed.  He was so proud to be doing this, so relieved that she was going to attend the Gala as his date, that that, too, tempered her reservations.  She could almost picture it, him climbing out of the limo (they’d go in one, of course – their carriage) in front of the Gala, cameras flashing on the red carpet.  How handsome he’d look as he reached back for her hand to help her out.  Normally she’d never tolerate that sort of nonsense from him, but right then it would be the most natural thing in the world, for her to take his hand and climb out of the car.  The cameras would snap like crazy, but it wouldn’t matter.  She’d put her arm through his, and he’d smile and lead her inside.  He’d walk tall, handsome and powerful, and she’d be there at his side, beautiful and enchanting.  If she could only focus on that, on this little fantasy and how it would feel, on the light in his eyes and the happy tone of his voice, on how much she knew he loved her and was proud of her and them…  Maybe she could forget just how scared she was.

She was Black Widow, and Black Widow wasn’t frightened of anything.  But the thought of the media there and people shouting questions and maybe even yelling in disgust at seeing someone like her with Captain America…  She closed her eyes, and the allure of that dumb dream slipped away.  It was weak and stupid, but she couldn’t shake her dread.  Ever since Steve had left her here at the boutique with a chaste kiss and a wish for her to have fun, she’d felt that, loud and clear.  _Dread._   It was twisting her stomach, turning what should have been a pleasant afternoon into something tense and uncertain.  She was better than this.  She should have been _better_.  Still, she just couldn’t get passed it.

“Nat?”

“I’m alright,” she replied automatically, donning a dazzling smile.  “Let’s shop.”

They did.  Clint and Steve had taken Cooper to get lunch, promising to take their sweet time to give the girls a chance to find a dress, but they needed to get going.  Natasha focused on that, on completing the mission objectives, and that made it easier.  She calmed the butterflies in her stomach, selecting a few more dresses from the expansive racks.  A deep burgundy with sequins and a pretty purple with lace and a gold and black gown that she didn’t like yet Laura insisted she try.  In the dressing room, she changed from her clothes into a smooth, silky robe.  Laura and Lila sat in an expensively upholstered pair of chairs before a pedestal and numerous floor-to-ceiling mirrors.  Their attendant brought a platter of sparkling water, sweet champagne, and fruit.  Laura’s eyes widened, impressed by the treatment, as Natasha started trying.

The first set of dresses was all wrong.  One had too much on it again, too elaborate and flashy for Natasha’s tastes (and for Laura’s, who frowned and shook her head before the attendant had even finished securing the zipper in the back).  Another simply fit poorly and did nothing to flatter Natasha’s figure, tight in all the wrong places and poofy in some even worse ones.  Again, Laura shook her head, this time trying not to smile.  “That’s not it,” she simply declared, and Natasha had to agree.  She didn’t even bother standing up on the pedestal.  Those that followed were okay.  Nothing amazing or spectacular.  The pretty blue one and the deep purple one weren’t as nice on as she thought they would be.  That was disappointing.

And it didn’t get better.  The next one they tried was, well… _hideous._   Their helper didn’t seem too pleased when Laura broke out laughing, especially after all the work it had been to get Natasha into the gown.  But it was hard not to laugh, honestly.  The dress was a garish bright pink, a form fitting monstrosity with a long swath of feathers and chiffon at the back.  Natasha stared at herself in the mirrors, grimacing.  She put her hands on her hips as their attendant fluffed out the train of… plumage.  _Plumage.  So wrong._   Lila wrinkled her nose.  “Auntie Nat, you look like a flamingo.”

“It’s meant to resemble that,” the attendant declared helpfully but a little defensively.  “From Versace’s summer collection.  Every piece is inspired by a bird.  Thrilling textures and vibrant colors combine to create the illusion of the exotic.”

“Exotic?  Not sure we want that,” Laura said.

“Trust me.  You go anywhere in a gown like this, every pair of eyes in the room will be on you the entire time.”

That was not the thing for the woman to say, and she didn’t even realize it.  Natasha grimaced again but for entirely different reasons.  “I guess I just don’t get high-end fashion,” Laura admitted, shaking her head.  She stood beside Natasha, staring at her reflection.  Their attendant wisely chose not to comment further, adjusting the bodice instead.  Laura shrugged.  “You can definitely pull it off, but why in the world would you want to?”  Natasha couldn’t argue with that.  And she had to smile, even giggle a bit, at how ridiculous she looked.  “Can’t even imagine what Steve would say.”

She found her good cheer dashed in sudden fear.  Natasha glanced in the mirror to see if anyone had heard – _this is so stupid.  Get a hold of yourself!_ – but no one had noticed.  The attendant was getting another gown ready, uncaring.  And that made sense.  All Laura had said was Steve.  Not even Steve Rogers.  Not even _the_ Steve Rogers.  Not Captain America.  _Not yet._ That brought everything back into sharp focus.

Laura hadn’t missed her minute reaction.  She donned that frown she had whenever she was concerned about someone she loved.  “Could you give us a minute?” she asked their attendant, and the woman hesitated a moment before nodding.  She gathered up the unwanted dresses and took them from the room.  “Lila, sweetie, can you get the door?”  Lila did as she was told.  Once they were alone and hidden from the eyes of the boutique staff, Laura sighed gently and stood behind Natasha.  “First, let’s get this ridiculous thing off.  Then we can talk.”

“I don’t want to,” Natasha replied, looking in the mirror but trying hard not to see.  Laura cocked an eyebrow.  “Talk.  But yes to getting me out of this.”

Laura’s capable fingers, always so calm and sure, went to work on the many buttons and hooks of the bodice of the gown.  Natasha stood still, stiff, tense and anxious as Laura undid everything.  When she felt like she could breathe again (the corset on this abomination had been a little on the tight side), she exhaled slowly.  “Alright, so what is it?” Laura finally asked.  The dress rustled as she helped Natasha push it down and step out of it.  Gathering the overabundant fabric, she handed Natasha back the robe.  Natasha slipped it on, pulling her hair loose, while her friend put the pink horror back on its hanger.  “You have that look you always have when something is really bothering you and you don’t want to admit it.”

Natasha gritted her teeth just a bit.  This was one of the reasons she hadn’t wanted to do this.  Laura _knew_ her, knew her as well as Clint and maybe even better in some ways.  She was a friend, a good friend, and she was too perceptive for her to hide her feelings.  Funny how a simple farmer’s daughter had learned how to see through the masks of the world’s best spy just like that.  She sighed again to try and relax.  “I don’t know if I can do this,” she softly declared.

“Do what, Auntie Nat?” Lila asked.  “What are you scared of?”

She was having a _really_ off day if a five-year old could see through her.  What sense was there in lying?  And maybe she’d feel better talking about it.  She had in the past.  Laura’s advice, after all, had been instrumental in her finally admitting to herself that she wanted Steve.  The Barton family’s support meant so much to her, and it had since Clint had brought her into SHIELD.  Why not trust that now?  “I’m just…  I’m not ready.”

Laura must have been a counselor in another life.  Instead of immediately dismissing her fears, she softly asked, “Why?”

Natasha sighed, watching herself in the mirror.  She still saw so much of her past staring back at her.  Being a SHIELD agent and an Avenger had opened her eyes to the evil she’d done for certain, but being Captain America’s partner, _falling in love_ with Captain America, had made her ashamed of it.  She’d done a great deal to atone for her sins.  Still, she’d never felt like this.  _Unworthy._   Steve kept telling her she was being ridiculous to even think such a thing, but she couldn’t help it.  She’d murdered innocent people, set fires to hospitals and places of peace, used her body and her mind as a weapon for the corrupt.  No matter what she did, that was never going to go away completely, and Steve, who’d only ever done good and been noble, couldn’t understand that.  She was _damaged_.  For crying out loud, she could hardly even sleep beside him at night without being terrified she’d have a nightmare and _hurt_ him (though that was far better than it had been a few months ago).  Didn’t Captain America deserve more than that, than an ex-assassin for the KGB?  This wasn’t to say she thought lowly of herself, but there was just no way she’d _ever_ be good enough.

Since that night she’d nearly killed him in the throes of a nightmare, they’d debated about this, argued even once or twice, but that had been in the privacy of his apartment.  The minute she arrived at this highly publicized event on his arm, _everyone_ would be debating it.  And maybe he was okay with that, but she wasn’t.  “Everything is so simple to him,” she finally answered.  “Black or white.  Right or wrong.  Things aren’t that way.”

Laura smiled faintly.  “No, they’re not.”  Natasha met her gaze in the mirror.  She knew Laura understood that.  Clint had had his own fair share of dark moments, things he’d done that he regretted now.  She knew what it was like to forgive.  “But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong to hope they can be.  Are you worried people will judge you?”  Natasha flushed a little and immediately shook her head.  It wasn’t at all convincing, not even to her.  “I’d be, too, if I was in your place.”

That was comforting, even if it was trite.  “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah,” Laura said.  “This is a big deal.”

It was.  It was in more ways than she could even say.  “Captain America’s girlfriend,” she commented before heaving another sigh.  She turned back to look at herself in the mirror, scrutinizing her image like she was trying to find _that_ in her familiar eyes and pale face and wavy red hair.  Steve saw it all the time, saw it and encouraged it with that gentle way of his.  But was it _really_ there?  There and strong enough to stand in front of the world and proudly proclaim: _I’m in love with him._   For someone who hid _everything_ behind lies and masks, this felt akin to betraying herself on a very fundamental level.  One of her selves, anyway.  _Black Widow._ A self that was quiet and dying a slow death but still _there_ all the same.  “He’s so excited.  He wants this to be perfect.  I want to be perfect for him.”  That was such a novel thing, wanting something like that for someone else.  To make someone else happy.  It felt like vulnerability, something she timidly wanted but was afraid to embrace.  “I want it to be right.”

“It will be,” Laura promised.  “We’ll find the right dress, and you’ll go to New York and have a wonderful weekend together.”  It _did_ sound nice, incredibly so, but she still couldn’t dismiss her dread.  “And since when do you care what other people think? The only opinions that matter are yours and Steve’s.”

“I know that.  I do.  But…”

Laura smiled a knowing smile.  “It’s hard to make yourself believe it.”  Natasha nodded sadly.  “Maybe this will help with that.  You never know.”  Laura went to get the next dress.  Maybe she should have waited for the shop attendant, but she didn’t, selecting the black gown with the gold patterns intricately laid into the fabric.  Natasha hadn’t thought much of the dress on the rack, and she still didn’t.  The embroidery was remarkable, though, obviously done by hand.  “This one?”

She didn’t have much hope for it, but she slid her robe off all the same.  “Alright.”

Laura unzipped the back and helped her into the gown.  It was something of a mermaid fit, not as tight about her thighs where the skirt opened fuller.  “You guys are incredible together,” she said as she tugged the dress gently over Natasha’s shoulders.  “You’re amazing.  Amazing that you’ve come so far.  That’s what Clint and I see.  So that’s what everyone else will see.  And so what if they gossip?  You’re better than worrying about any of this.”

She knew that.  But she also knew that wasn’t all of it.  As Laura zipped the gown up, Natasha turned away from the mirror.  “When…”  God, it felt wrong to talk about this.  This wasn’t who she was.  Still, the words came, eager as they were to be heard because she wanted solace.  She wanted someone to tell her it was alright, and that someone couldn’t be Steve.  He was the reason she was feeling this way, after all.  “When he asked me to be his date, he, um…” She couldn’t help a smile at the memory.  “He got down on his knees.  Bought me roses.”  Laura grinned too, smoothing the dress a bit.  “It was…”  She didn’t know the words.  It all felt foreign to her.  “It was so sweet.”

“I bet.”

Natasha’s smile faltered a bit.  “But the thing is…  When he reached into his jacket for the necklace he gave me…”  The image became more vivid, the glow of his eyes, the excited yet nervous smile on his lips.  The way he’d looked at her.  _No one_ had _ever_ looked at her like that.  And the trepidation and warm exhilaration and _hope_ burned inside her again, just as they had in that moment.  “When he gave that to me, I thought for sure he was going to ask me to marry him.”

Now Laura went absolutely still.  Lila’s eyes went wide with wonder, and she hopped down from her chair to come over.  “Steve asked you to marry him?” she asked, doing absolutely nothing to hide her jubilant interest.

Natasha shook her head, her grin turning sad.  “No, no, honey.  He didn’t.”

Lila’s face fell.  “So we’re not getting a wedding dress?  I want to do that.”

Natasha tensed.  “Not now,” Laura shushed.

“Soon?  I like Steve.  If he marries Auntie Nat, does he get to be my uncle?”

“Sweetheart,” Laura said more sternly, “let Mommy and Auntie Nat talk, okay?  Go sit down and finish your fruit.”  Lila looked quite disappointed but obeyed, sulking her way back to her seat.  Laura stepped closer, lowering her voice further.  “That’s why you’re upset?  Because he didn’t?”

Natasha bit her lip hard enough to hurt.  She didn’t know.  She couldn’t even put what she was feeling into words.  She’d never been good at dealing with her own emotions.  “I…  I wanted him to.  I do.”

There was no mistaking the enthusiasm brimming in Laura’s eyes.  “So what’s the matter?” she asked again.  “You were disappointed.”

She had been, but not enough to quell how uncomfortable she was with the thought.  “I’m not ready,” she said again.  “It’s too much, too fast.”

“Nat, you’ve been his partner for almost two years.”

“I know.  That’s not it.”

“Then what?  Do you love him?”

She bit her lip again.  That wasn’t the problem.  It never had been.  “Yes, but I…  I’m just not sure I can be what he needs.  Like this whole thing, like standing out there in front of everyone and _being with him._   I just…  I don’t know how to do that.  I don’t know how to be someone’s girlfriend, let alone wife.  The Red Room…  Well, you know what they did.”  Laura’s face fell just a bit because she did.  All too well.  It all came out now, the thoughts that had been running rampant in her head for the past day.  “I can’t do things like this.  I can’t even be his date to something like this without him needing to beg me to do it and you and Clint needing to help and…  And I can’t give him children.”  She almost choked on those sudden words.  “I can’t give him a family.  He keeps telling me that’s fine, but it’s not.  It’s not fine, and I can’t even _tell_ him that.  I can’t tell him how much that hurts me, that I can’t do that for him.  I can’t _be open_ , Laura.  I don’t know how.  I trust him, but I don’t know if I can ever let myself go.  Surrender, I guess.  I’m not…  I’m not making any sense.”

“You are,” Laura assured softly.

“He deserves all that, and those aren’t things I know how to be or even things I cared about before.  So…”  Natasha swallowed through a tight throat.  “Maybe it’s good that I was getting ahead of myself.  Good that he didn’t ask.”

She wasn’t sure she really thought that.  Laura clearly wasn’t convinced either, but she didn’t say anything further.  She drew Natasha into a gentle hug.  “Remember what I told you that night you guys came over for dinner?  When my idiot of a husband tried to play matchmaker.”

Natasha closed her eyes.  “What?”

“I told you to listen to your heart.”  Laura pulled away, and all the comfort Natasha had needed, all the bravery and the strength, was in her gentle smile.  “When the time comes, you’ll be ready.”  She said that with such confidence, giving Natasha no choice but to believe it.  “Now let’s find a dress for you so you can knock Captain America and the rest of the world off their feet.”

She felt better, even if nothing had changed really.  Laura stepped away, and when her gaze drifted down Natasha’s form, her grin slipped into an expression of awe.  “Oh, wow, Nat,” she breathed.  She grasped Natasha’s shoulders and turned her so that she faced the mirror.  _“Look.”_

Natasha did.  This dress that she thought had been rather ugly on the hanger was anything but.  She stepped up onto the pedestal, gazing at her reflection.  It was beautiful.  It fit her perfectly, hugging her slender frame and falling just right to accentuate her curves but tastefully so.  The gold patterns twinkled in the light of the room, sparkling as she moved, and she realized now that there were tiny gems and crystals sewn into the swirling patterns.  They caught the light and made the gown glow.  It added just enough fluidity to the fabric to tease the eye, magic in a way.  _Magic._   As silly as it was, she liked that.

“You look…”  Laura smiled, raising her eyebrows.  “You look beautiful.”

It wasn’t often that Natasha ever appraised herself, at least not without a purpose or a mission in mind.  Her body had been taken from her, reshaped and molded to be a weapon.  She’d been trained to look upon it as an asset.  Now, though…  She _did_ look beautiful.  And it wasn’t just the dress, though that was something.  It was her shining in it.

Lila hopped down again and came right over.  “What do you think?” Natasha asked her after she’d gathered her wits enough to speak.

“Love it!” Lila announced.

“I do, too, Nat,” Laura agreed.  “This is it.  Wow.”

There was a knock at the door, and their attendant came back inside.  At first she was timid, but when she saw Natasha (and sensed the change in mood from tense and anxious to excited and relieved), she immediately started in about the dress.  She went on about the designer and how it was hand sewn and how exquisite Natasha looked in it.  Natasha had to admit that she did.  _Beautiful.  Perfect._   She swept her hair up and loosely piled it on her head.  She could practically see the necklace Steve had bought her resting in the hollow of her throat.  Twisting a little, she watched the gown move in the mirrors.  God, she loved it.  She couldn’t help a broad, real smile, indulging in the fantasy again.  Steve’s hand reaching for hers.  The cameras flashing and the media waiting for her to step out of the car.  Climbing to her feet, wearing this gown that shimmered and shone.  Steve offering his arm to her.  His eyes.  His smile.

_His smile._

She slipped from the daydream, eyes focusing as she stared into the mirror.  It was an odd thing, a reflection of a reflection in a mirror outside the room through the door that had been left open, so for a moment she didn’t quite understand what she was seeing.  But then she did.  Steve’s smile.  He was standing out in the hallway, standing with Clint and Cooper.  Obviously they were back from their outing.  And obviously he’d caught sight of her.  They both had.  Clint was smiling, so relieved and not bothering to hide it at all.  Steve was… _entranced._   He was watching her with worshipful eyes, and the power of that made her blush.  Made _her_ blush.  She felt amazing, flying high, beautiful and free.  She felt powerful like she never had before.  The way he stared at her, unabashed and full of reverence…  He was seeing his date, his girlfriend.  He was seeing the woman he loved.  He was seeing everything he knew she could be.

She looked back at herself in the mirror and smiled.  For the first time, she saw it, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another wonderful artwork made by the amazing [vbprodz](http://vbprodz.tumblr.com)!


	45. The Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I'm sure everyone recognizes the song as "The Way You Look Tonight", sung and covered by many but maybe most famously by Frank Sinatra :-).

Steve could tell Natasha was nervous.  Again, this was something very subtle, and anyone who didn’t know her as well as he did probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all.  She sat beside him as the limousine pulled up to the red carpet outside the Gala.  She was cool, confident, and smiling softly.  She looked positively gorgeous, hair up and to the side with red tendrils framing her face, make-up perfect, the gown she’d chosen hugging her slender form perfectly.  It was black with gold embellishments that caught the light and shone magnificently, like the shimmer of distant stars and suns against the velvety darkness of space.  She was wearing his necklace, too, and it looked as amazing on her as he thought it would.  She _was_ amazing.

But she was nervous.  He could see it.  When she exhaled, it wasn’t complete, like she was continually holding her breath.  She was glancing around suspiciously when she thought he wasn’t looking.  She was smiling and laughing, seemingly light and airy, but he could see it was a mask.  He’d seen her truly light and airy, as sweet and free as anyone could be, and this wasn’t it.  He’d seen her eyes open, her laughter given rather than forced, true happiness in her face, true contentment in her heart.  _This wasn’t it._   “You know,” he began, and his voice was booming in the quiet.  Neither of them had spoken since the Stark Industries driver had picked them up from their hotel and taken them here.  He took her hand where it rested on the expensive leather seat between them.  Lifting it, he sighed gently.  “We don’t have to do this.”

Outside, there was a hullabaloo.  Steve could hear it, the muffled sounds of shouting from the media on the red carpet.  He could see it, too, the flashing of hundreds of cameras, eagerly gathering their footage and images of celebrities arriving at the event.  She was right; he hadn’t anticipated at all what a swarm of reporters looked like.  The car door was like a barrier to it all, a final wall between them and the rest of the world.  She sighed, staring out at the throng of reporters and paparazzi.  “We have an obligation, don’t we?”  There was a wistful tone to her voice he didn’t like, either.  While he watched her dress earlier, mesmerized by the way she moved, the fluidity of it all as if she was dancing through these simple moments, he’d wondered if this was the right thing to do.  The engagement ring in its tiny velvet box was tucked into the jacket of his tuxedo, and it felt heavier than he thought it should have.  The way she’d been just a mere hour ago, the way she _always_ was with him, so strong and open and confident…  That wasn’t who she was with other people.  Well, she _was_ , and that was the tricky thing about Natasha.  She was everything to everyone and yet nothing to everyone at the same time.  Sincerity was difficult to gauge with her.  He liked to think (no, he _knew_ ) that he saw a side of her that no one else did, _Natasha_ underneath Black Widow and the SHIELD agent and the Avenger, and he’d wanted everyone to see that and realize that she was as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside.  Now he wasn’t sure.  Not that she didn’t deserve to have _everyone in the world_ know she was this beautiful, but that she was _happy_ for them to see it.

She sighed, caressing his knuckles lightly with her thumb.  “We have an obligation,” she said again.

“I have an obligation,” he corrected.  “You don’t, not even to me.  _Especially_ not to me.”  They were here, right on the brink of exposure, and he felt nothing but responsible about that.  Had he pushed her?  He’d felt so sure of all of this until now.  “I’ll go myself.  Make my speech.  Do whatever I need to do and then get out of here.”  He managed a grin.  Truth be told, he was feeling pretty nervous himself, the added weight of wanting to propose on tonight of all nights notwithstanding.  He could have picked any quiet moment at home to do this, and he’d stupidly piled it on top of all the other emotions and stress of their first public date _and_ a date at a social event this huge and exclusive _and_ on a night where he really needed to be on point for the sake of what he’d been asked to do.  _Lord, what was I thinking?_   “I won’t even pretend to dance with the girls Tony probably has waiting inside for me.”

“You’re a terrible dancer,” she teased, looking at him with a sly grin.

He tried to look affronted.  “How would you know?”

“A ballerina can tell these things.”

Chuckling, he said, “Well, this is my first time.”  That made her expression tighten again, not with anger but that same hint of dismay.  He lifted her hand and kissed it.  “You don’t need to do this, Nat.”

Their limo pulled up to the spot where the guests were getting out.  It was now or never.  She stared out the tinted window a moment more, and he could see her gathering herself.  Then she lifted his hand and kissed it this time before dazzling him with a smile.  “You gonna get the door for me or what, Rogers?”

As it turned out, he didn’t need to.  There was a valet there, and he opened Natasha’s door for her.  Immediately the noise became deafening as that last barrier vanished and it was them against the media.  Steeling himself against the brightness of the cameras, Steve moved fast, sliding across the limo to get out first.

The reaction was instantaneous.  He wasn’t as well known to the public as Tony was, but people recognized his face.  And everyone knew he’d be attending this.  That was the point, after all, to put Captain America in front of the rich masses to entice them into donating money.  Despite having anticipated all of that, he wasn’t quite prepared for the intensity of it.  “Captain Rogers!  Captain Rogers!”

“Are you glad to be here tonight on behalf of the Foundation?”

“What can you tell us about the Avengers, Captain?”

“Are you doing this as a favor to Mr. Stark?  Rumor has it you two got off to a rocky start last year!”

“Steve!  Who are you wearing tonight?”

It was a relentless bombardment that he ignored, turning and reaching his hand down to Natasha.  She looked up at him a moment, hidden still by the door and his body.  Now her eyes were openly filled with dread and apprehension, so he smiled comfortingly and mouthed _I love you._   That was all it took for Black Widow’s incredible confidence to come rushing back, and she took his hand and got out.

The crowd immediately stilled.  Everyone was quiet like they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing.  Steve swallowed through a dry throat, heart pounding, a cold sweat prickling across his skin under his tuxedo.  Surprisingly, for all the hesitation and doubt she’d had, for all he knew she wasn’t at all comfortable doing this, it was Natasha who moved first, stepping up onto the red carpet.  “Shall we, Captain?”  She offered him her hand.

He took it, sliding it through the crook of his elbow.  Then they walked to the ballroom’s entrance.

“Oh my God, is that Black Widow?”

“He’s with Black Widow?”

“Ms. Romanoff, are you here on behalf of SHIELD?”

“What’s SHIELD’s interest in the Maria Stark Foundation?”

“Black Widow, what do you have to say about accusations concerning–”

“Natasha!  You look stunning!  Who are you wearing tonight?  Did Tony Stark invite you as well?  Will you be speaking?”

Through it all, all of the questions and cameras desperately flashing, Natasha held her head high.  Steve glanced at her.  She was calm and composed, donning that same impassive, unimpressed face she often wore just before they went into a battle.  He couldn’t help but smile a little at that.  They reached the door.

“Cap, are the other Avengers coming?  Thor?  Hawkeye?”

“Wow!  Natasha, can we get a picture of you alone?”

“Don’t you think it sends a strange message attending this event, Ms. Romanoff, given the sort of crimes you’ve been involved in?  Rumor has it you–”  Steve glared at the man, and he stopped talking and backed away.

But there were so many more.  “Agent Romanoff, people accuse SHIELD of–”

“Is it difficult to be an Avenger given your past?”

“Are you…  Are you here with Cap?”

Steve turned.  Now he stared down the entire crowd of reporters not quite malignantly but sure as heck sternly.  “Yes,” he evenly declared.  “She’s here with me.”  He lifted Natasha’s hand where it was on his forearm and pressed a light kiss to it.  “Excuse us.”

Well, _that_ fairly well sent them all into a tizzy, and the shouting somehow got louder.  It was nearly blinding, how fast camera flashes were going off.  Steve gave a bit of a smile that he hoped looked confident and comfortable before leading Natasha into the Gala.

What a relief it was to be inside!  Well, it was for a moment.  Then they both realized nearly _everyone_ in the extravagant ballroom was staring at _them_.  They froze near the entrance, hundreds of pairs of eyes watching.  Given the media circus outside, it was only logical people would want to see which extremely popular and important celebrities were arriving.  He was never going to be comfortable with all the fame and notoriety being Captain America brought him.  Inside, he was always going to be little Steve Rogers, invisible to almost everyone who wasn’t interested in picking on him or beating him up.  He swallowed through a dry throat, absolutely stunned into a stupor.  Natasha seemed about as frozen and lost.  _Okay…_

He never thought he would actually think this, but here it was.  _Thank God for Tony Stark._   “Steve-o!” Tony called, pulling away from his guests to get to Steve’s side.  He took one look at Natasha, and his brow furrowed in confusion for a second before he probably convinced himself that the opposite of what he’d concluded had to be true.  “And Big Red, apparently.”  Tony grabbed Steve’s hand in something of a salutation.  “What in the world did you do out there?  Make out or something?”  Or maybe he’d just been confirming what he’d known to be true.  Had Tony figured it out already?  Had Pepper told him?  Natasha glanced at Steve, and Steve knew his face was burning hot and red.  If that didn’t give it away…  “They sound like a pack of rabid wolves.”

The media was still trying to get pictures of them through the doors and windows of the ballroom.  “I, uh…”  Steve grimaced.

“Doesn’t matter.  You made it!  Yay.  And, Tash, it’s always nice to see you.”  Nope.  He didn’t know.  “Next time you want in, though, just ask.  You don’t need to pretend to be Rogers’ date to get invited to my party.”

Natasha coolly arched an eyebrow.  If there was one thing that grounded her, it was the ability to put someone in his or her place.  Usually his place.  Usually Stark.  “I’m not pretending,” she said quietly.  There was that murderous tone in her voice that scared most people to death, Tony included.  Steve tried not to smile.  “I am his date.”

That slightly horrified look on Tony’s face slid into a lax expression of complete shock.  “You’re kidding, right.”  She said nothing, standing closer to Steve.  “You’re not kidding.”  The wheels were turning in Tony’s head.  For him being a certifiable genius, he sure was slow sometimes.  “You… and _him_?  Black Widow and Captain America.”  He couldn’t get his head around this.  “Dating.”  Natasha nodded, and Steve loved her all the more for the act, the way she was pretending like this wasn’t surprising at all.  “Nuh-uh.  No way.”

“Way,” Natasha firmly said.

Tony’s forehead furrowed in confusion again, and he squinted, like he was trying to figure it out.  “You and him.  That’s just…  No.  You guys are like polar opposites.”

Steve felt like he should say something, come to their defense somehow, but Natasha had it in hand.  She cocked an eyebrow again.  “You think?”

Tony (and everyone around them) kept staring, kept scrutinizing.  Truth be told, Steve was feeling more and more unsettled by the second.  It wasn’t _that_ unbelievable, was it?  He understood they were an unlikely pair; truly, he did.  That was one of the reasons this was so intimidating.  Still, just because he was Captain America and she was Black Widow didn’t mean there was anything _wrong_ about what they had.  That was what this was all about, after all.  So the world could see that.  So _she_ could see that.  So he could show her that.  So he could ask her to marry him in front of everyone and everyone would _know_ just how much he loved her.

After a beat, Tony shook his head.  “Yeah, okay.  Good one, Red.  Really.  Had me going there a second.  Had me thinking you–”  Tony didn’t get to finish.  The next thing Steve knew, Natasha had her arms around his neck and her mouth to his in a very intimate, very passionate kiss.  Steve jerked momentarily – in surprise more than anything – before holding her and kissing her back.

The world fell away.  Maybe this wasn’t entirely appropriate for an occasion like this, for the caliber of people around them.  Maybe they would consider it uncouth, improper, such a very public display of affection.  And maybe Natasha was proving to everyone in her own way that she belonged, that she had power all her own, that she was _here_ on Captain America’s arm because she was asked and had chosen to attend.  Maybe she was marking her territory just a little (which was fine with him – she could mark all she wanted).  It didn’t matter why.  Suddenly the tension eased from his body (and from hers), and he felt like he could breathe again.  This was right.  _It was right._ She smiled into his lips.  “Well, you said you didn’t want to go back,” she whispered.

He didn’t.  He never wanted to go anywhere without her.  So he kissed her again even though _everyone was watching._   When he pulled away, he smiled, too.

Tony just seemed… _flummoxed_.  Bewildered.  At a complete loss.  Steve supposed that was understandable.  He’d just been told – _shown_ – that two of his teammates had been carrying on a secret love affair.  Not only that, but this was happening between two of the more unlikely people: Natasha, who was notoriously difficult to predict and understand, and Steve, who to Tony’s knowledge, was still a confused duckling in this new era and pining for his lost love.  Stark’s jaw was pretty much on the floor, eyes wide and mind blown.  “Uh… okay.   And how long has this been going on?”

“A while.”

“I take it no one knew.”

“Mostly.”

“And you’re doing this whole ‘revealing ourselves to the world thing’ here at my party.”

“Seemed like as good a place as any,” Natasha smoothly replied as if this had been her idea from the get-go.  How she pulled off being so calm and in control when Steve knew she wasn’t, he’d never know.  “Figured the publicity couldn’t hurt the cause, right, Rogers?”

When Steve got his brain working again enough to think, he nodded.  “Right.”

Natasha smiled sweetly at Tony and took Steve’s hand, pulling him towards the attendees.  “So you should really be thanking us,” she reminded, floating away and tugging her date with her.

Steve shrugged, glancing back at Tony with what he knew was a stupid grin plastered all over his face.  As they walked away, they ran into Pepper, who greeted them both with a sweet, relieved smile and a tender embrace.  She remarked that Natasha looked gorgeous in the gown and that Steve was as handsome as ever before promising them to talk more later.  She went to Tony, and Steve could hear Tony stammering.  “How…  I mean, when – did _you_ know about this?  How did you know about this?”

Natasha laughed lightly, and together they headed to the dance floor, a huge weight off of both of them because _they’d done it._   The world had seen them together, and it was still spinning.  _So far, so good._

The party went on after that without so much as a hitch.  Of course, now that people knew, there were whispers.  Steve and Natasha weren’t exactly celebrities, and the fame and attention they had was never something they wanted.  Still, they’d caused quite a stir arriving together, and the kiss had sent everything into a flurry of gossip, good and bad.  Natasha was seemingly impervious to it all, rising above it as she walked and talked, floating yet as if nothing could touch her.  As Steve mingled with the guests, politicians and other CEOS and celebrities and philanthropists, he had a difficult time focusing.  He was here with a purpose, he needed to remember, a mission.  Coax these people into donating money.  But he found he was acutely aware of Natasha the entire night.  He knew where she was as she, too, mingled and worked the room, helping with his cause though he hadn’t asked her to.  He caught her eyes now and then, a little knowing glance or a quick, flirty smirk.  He felt her presence in a sense, drunk off of it in a way he could never get from the glass of champagne in his hand.  She was glorious and magical.

Food was served, delicious food that Steve barely remembered eating.  Drinks were brought around the ballroom by waiters dressed in tuxedos.  An orchestra had been playing soft music all night, classical and elegant.  Still, no one had ventured out onto the glimmering ballroom floor just yet.  They were waiting for the first dance.

An hour or so into the Gala, it was time.  Tony pulled Steve aside.  “You ready?”

Steve drew a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves.  “Guess so.”

Tony patted his back reassuringly.  “Just get up there, do that smiling, USO thing you’re famous for, and charm them into giving up their money.  Simple.”

“Sure.”

“And you and I need to have a talk about secrets,” Tony said as he directed him to the front of the ballroom where the band was.  “Because seriously?  You should not keep the fact that you’re tapping something that fine away from your best friend.”

Steve knew that Tony was trying to ease his anxiety, which must have meant it was pretty obvious.  The orchestra was finishing up its last song.  “Best friend, Stark?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I’m your only friend in this day and age,” Tony murmured lightly, looking over the hundreds of guests.  Natasha stood by Pepper, and they were, in turn, watching them.  “Ergo, I’m your best friend.  And a best friend deserves to know you’re dating.”  He shook his head.  “I still can’t believe this.  You and Red.”  He nudged Steve in the ribs.  “She doesn’t terrify you just a little?”

Steve smiled, watching Natasha sip champagne, watched the way her lips touched the rim of the glass.  God, that dress was amazing.  “She terrifies me a lot.  It’s probably better that way.”

Tony laughed lightly.  “Spose that’s the God’s honest truth about women in general.”  He shook his arms out a little like he was trying to loosen up and prepare himself.  That was comforting, that even a man as suave and sophisticated as Tony Stark still had a ritual to deal with his nerves.  “Alright, I’m gonna say a little thing.  Introduce you.  Then you do your thing.  Then we dance and swim in the cash flooding in.  Capish, Cap?”  Steve nodded.  “Cool.  Knock ’em dead.”

He actually felt like he could with Natasha out there watching him.  He’d done stuff like this before (rarely – back during the 40s, most people just wanted to look at him, see him knock out Hitler, see him wave and shoot fake guns and lead fake troops to a fake victory), but he’d usually been ridiculously anxious.  Like throw-up backstage anxious.  Catching Natasha’s eyes again, it wasn’t so bad.  He smiled.  She smiled back.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Tony Stark,” the leader of the orchestra introduced.

The crowd broke into courteous applause, abandoning food, drink, and conversation to watch Tony step to the microphone.  He flashed a dapper smile.  “Good evening, everyone!  Thanks again for coming to the fifteenth annual Maria Stark Foundation Gala.  My mother would be thrilled to see so many people invested in this cause.”  Steve took a deep breath, clasping his hands in front of him and looking down, running through the speech he’d memorized earlier that day one more time in his head.   Tony went on as he did, as he gathered his wits, and despite how he was trying to concentrate, other words unwittingly flittered through his head.  _“Nat, you’ve changed my life for the better.  I don’t think you even realize how much.  You were my friend when I was alone.  You’ve given me everything and asked for so little in return.  I know you think you’re damaged, but you’re anything but.  And I know you don’t see yourself as worthy, but you are.  You are.  You’re worthy of being an Avenger.  You’re worthy of being my partner and my friend.  You’re more than worthy of being the one I love.  I’ll spend the rest of my life giving you everything I have every day to show you that.  Please, would you do me the honor of–”_

“May I present this year’s keynote speaker, the one and only Captain America himself, Captain Steve Rogers.”

Steve snapped from his thoughts and looked up as the room broke into loud applause.  Tony stepped back from the mic, clapping and smiling.  Again mustering his calm, Steve stepped up to his place.  Tony shook his hand again for show and hugged him lightly.  Steve approached the microphone, looking out over the crowd of lavishly dressed people, some of the most powerful and prominent of this day and age.  Mostly they were strangers to him, owing to the fact that he _still_ didn’t know as much as he needed to of the future, but even still, their eyes felt weighty and judgmental.  He was one half of the evening’s top story, after all, and there was no escaping that.  “Good evening.  It’s an honor to be here.  I’d like to thank Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts for the opportunity to speak in front of you fine folks.”  He caught Natasha’s eyes and he gave a small smile.  _So why not use it?_ “I’d also like to thank the lovely Natasha Romanoff for doing me the honor of being my date to this fine affair.”

It had been a gamble, but it certainly paid off.  The room applauded again, _genuinely_ , and Natasha actually _blushed_.  Pepper beamed at her.  Steve clapped too, smiling despite the half-hearted glare she sent his way.  _That’s right, love.  You belong here._

Once the clapping died down, he started speaking.  His speech was simple, and it wasn’t long.  His voice carried over the hall as he spoke of knowing Howard Stark in his own day, of being the friend of a great man with great vision.  Even then, Stark’s coffers had been full, and he’d spread his wealth and talent to those who’d needed it the most.  He’d never met Maria, obviously, but what he’d read and heard of her only spoke to the highest of hearts and the purest of souls.  Her foundation helped countless people: children without homes, children with terrible diseases, children in need of education and support.  Veterans and the terminally and chronically ill.  So many noble causes that required fostering and financial aid.  He went on about that, about how the good work done by the Foundation in encouraging research and welfare programs needed their donations to function.  It was a small thing they could do to help the good will of Maria Stark’s dream flourish.  “So I stand before you tonight, humbly asking you to follow your own high hearts and pure souls.  The Foundation helps so many, so many people who need just a little faith.  I’ve…  I’ve been where those people are.”  He looked down at his hands, large and strong now but once small, thin, and frail.  “I’ve been poor.  I’ve been sick.  I’ve been there, just aching for the chance to do something worthy.  To be something worthy.  Just that little bit of faith means so much, when you’re trying so hard, because it means someone somewhere believes in you.”

He caught Natasha’s eyes.  She was watching him almost unblinkingly.  There was a touch of fear in her gaze, but mostly she was open and full of love.  “I know what a gift that is.”  He smiled at her.  “And I know how it feels to realize someone cares about you enough to give it.”  _Like you’ve given me so much.  Took care of me when I had nothing and no one._   He wished she could hear that, that he could proclaim just how much her love had saved him.  It was hard to stop himself from asking then and there, from dropping down onto one knee, pulling out the ring, and proposing in front of the world.  But he slipped away from that dream, instead simply holding her gaze and continuing to smile.  “So I ask you to give and be generous doing so.  We can all be heroes when we help those in need.  Thank you.”

The audience broke into more exuberant cheers at that.  Tony stepped up and hugged him warmly, extremely pleased with his performance.  Steve grinned and clapped, too, relieved to have this done.  “Let’s get this party started, shall we?” Tony called.  “Maestro, if you would.”

The orchestra began to play.  This was a ball, and thus everyone was welcome to dance, but Steve felt like everyone was watching him as he crossed the shining dance floor to reach his date.  He reached out his hand to her, pouring the charm on as best he could (he’d never been very good at it, to be honest.  This is the first dance he’d ever been to in which he’d _had_ a date, to be honest).  Natasha looked like she didn’t understand.  “May I have this dance, miss?”

She snapped out of her trance, smiling faintly (genuinely, he thought, which was a rare thing since they’d come in here) and taking his hand.  They folded their fingers together, and he led her to the dance floor.  Other couples were coming, so many in fact that Steve felt a little overwhelmed but relieved at the same time that they weren’t strictly in the spotlight.  He had no idea what he was doing, but he followed Tony’s lead where the other man was with Pepper beside them and put his arm around Natasha’s waist.  Hers went about his shoulders, and they pressed close.  There was respectable distance between them, of course, but this felt as intimate and tender as any moment they’d shared.

Thank God the song was slow.  A piano was playing, lightly with drums and the bass accompanying it.  A few moments later, the orchestra joined in.  Vaguely he recognized the tune. _“Someday when I’m awfully low, when the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you and the way you look tonight.”_

“You look beautiful,” he murmured as they melded into the other couples.  She was leading him more than he was leading her, but he couldn’t be blamed.  Inexperience and all that.  And he couldn’t look away from her eyes.  They were gorgeous, glittering blue and green, shining with all the light in the world it seemed.  “You really, _really_ do.  Can’t take my eyes off you.  All night.”

“It’s the necklace,” she replied, blushing again.  He could make Black Widow blush.  He didn’t think he’d ever get over that.

_“Yes, you’re lovely with your smile so warm and your cheeks so soft.  There is nothing for me but to love you and the way you look tonight.”_

She shifted closer.  “This is nice,” she whispered, tucking her head against his shoulder.  “And you’re not half bad at dancing.”

He laughed lightly.  “Not so hard with the right partner.”

 _“With each word your tenderness grows, tearing my fear apart, and that laugh wrinkles your nose…”_   He kissed her nose lightly.  She giggled just a bit, a girlish sound he knew she’d never let anyone else hear.  _“Touches my foolish heart.”_

“Were you speaking to anyone in particular?” she asked in a whisper after a moment.  “About that gift.”

He smiled, bringing their joined hands to his mouth to kiss her fingers again.  “You know I was.”

_“Lovely…  Never, never change.  Keep that breathless charm.  Won’t you please arrange it?  ’Cause I love you.  Just the way you look tonight.”_

He held her close, letting the world fall away, letting this moment be all there was.  All that mattered.

They danced the night away.

Later in the evening, the Gala was winding down.  The guests were slowly beginning to disperse, spirits high and purses and wallets significantly lighter.  The orchestra was quieting now that the dancing was over.  Steve spoke to a few remaining politicians, senators from New York and New Jersey who’d had quite a bit to drink and who were trying their hardest to wrangle him into speaking at some of their fundraising functions coming up.  He was struggling to extricate himself before he accidentally committed when Tony thankfully arrived (fairly sober no less) to save him.  Then he sought out Pepper, who helped him find Natasha from whom he’d been separated some time ago.  The night was almost over, and he hadn’t found the right moment (or even _a_ moment) to ask her what he needed to ask her.  The ring was getting heavier and heavier in his pants pocket.  He’d checked it in the men’s room earlier, looking just to make sure it was there, just to remind himself of what he needed to do.  She deserved this.  She deserved everything he had to give.

He found her out on the balcony of the ballroom, overlooking the city street below.  Even this late, New York was still buzzing with activity.  Steve stood at the French doors and watched her, watched the chilly breeze pull her hair loose from its pins, watched her dress twinkle like the city lights beyond, watched her eyes quietly observing.  Then he cleared his throat and came closer.  _Now or never._ “Hey.”

She turned, smiling at him.  “Hey, yourself.”  The gesture was a bit strained, and he was seeing it all again.  Not nervousness now, per se, but the same disquiet.  The same discomfort.  Immediately the butterflies in his stomach stopped their fluttering, and his heart clenched in worry.  He walked over to stand beside her.  “All finished?”

He took off his tuxedo jacket and draped it over her bare shoulders.  She tugged it closer.  It was cold out here.  “Yeah.  Done my duty for the Foundation it seems.”

Natasha’s lips quirked into a smile.  “Pepper said it’s one of the best years they’ve ever had.  And that’s just the preliminary numbers.”  She turned back to the streets beyond.  “She claims it’s because of us.”

Steve grinned.  He was really proud and happy about that.  “Really?”

“Yeah.”  She didn’t seem to be the same, at least not as thrilled as he was, and that tempered his good mood.  “People seemed really surprised and pleased that Captain America brought Black Widow on a noble quest to help the disenfranchised.  It’s even trending on Twitter.”

It wasn’t exactly bitterness in her tone, but it hurt all the same.  “Nat–”

“I keep thinking about what you said up there, about giving.  About believing.”

This wasn’t what he’d wanted.  Not at all.  “Nat, love, I–”

“I keep thinking,” she went on, not letting him stop her, “that I couldn’t do what you did.  Stand in front of a room of people and inspire them to do good like that.  Be so honest and open.  I keep thinking…  I’m not there yet, Steve.”  She turned to face him, and that look was back to her eyes.  Doubt.  Dismay.  “I’m not clean enough to do something like that.”

“Natasha, you don’t have to prove anything,” he said.  He slipped his hand into his pants pocket, feeling for the box, desperate to do anything to make her feel better.  Loved.  _Cherished._ “I keep telling you that.  You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

“Maybe not to you,” she replied softly.  “And maybe not even to them.  But to me I do.  There’s still red in my ledger.  And I’m…”  She shook her head.  “I’m hiding behind SHIELD.  I think I have been for a long time.  All these secrets I have…  Rumor has it.”  Was she still thinking about that rude reporter?  “You can’t do what you said, give anyone love like that, if you’re hiding the truth.  And I’m not ready for the world to see me as I really am.”

He’d told her over and over again, during the worst of her nightmares, that she didn’t _deserve_ to be treated like anything less than a hero.  Yes, she’d done terrible things, but she’d been forced to.  And no one was beyond redemption, least of all someone who tried so hard now to do good.  However, the sad thing was this: her harshest critic was always herself.  And maybe she thought that was _part of redemption_ , of atonement for the sins of her past, but he didn’t see it that way.  He could appreciate that she wanted to make things right, but he didn’t understand how she could ever see herself as some kind of monster.

Still…  And this was the truth of it, what had led him to go so slowly with her, to patiently prod and hope rather than demand.  Even if he didn’t understand, he would _never_ push her into something she didn’t want.  And it wasn’t that she didn’t want it.  He knew she loved him.  He knew she wanted him.  She was afraid that she couldn’t give him children and the things she thought he needed.  He _knew_ that, how much that bothered her, and that sort of irrational guilt couldn’t come from someone who didn’t love.  He knew she’d marry him, even if he was scared of asking her.  Deep in his heart, he knew.

But he also knew he couldn’t push her.  He hadn’t pushed her once the entirety of their relationship until now, and he wouldn’t push her about this.  His mind went back a moment that seemed like a long time ago, but it wasn’t really.  That night at Clint’s farm the first time he’d been there.  In retrospect, he thought maybe that was when she’d wanted to ask him to be with her, that she had wanted to kiss him then and there.  He hadn’t been ready at the time.  The moment hadn’t been right, so she’d waited.

The moment wasn’t right now, either.

So he let go of the ring box, let the disappointment hurt a moment, and pulled his hand from his pocket.  Letting go of a long breath, he reached over and slid his arm across her shoulders.  It took him a moment more than he thought it would for him to swallow the tightness in his throat.  “Well, I think the evening was a success.  The world got to see you like this, dressed in this stunner of a dress,” he managed, praying his voice sounded level.  “And you and I made Tony a buttload of money for his mom’s foundation.”

“A buttload,” Natasha said.  “Did he teach you that phrase?”

“No, we had that one back in my day.”

She chuckled.  Then she sighed slowly, leaning into his side.  She reached up to take his hand, and she pressed it between her cheek and her shoulder, nuzzling his palm.  They were quiet, listening to the city.  “I’m glad we did this,” she finally said, turning to him again.  She slid her hands up his dress shirt, smiling more genuinely.  “It was…  It was a lot of fun.  I’m glad everyone knows I’m…”  Her lips quirked in a grin.  “I’m your _girlfriend_.”  He laughed a little.  “It feels really good.  No going back, right?”

The ring was heavier than the weight of the world.  “Nope,” he said.  He leaned in to kiss her, needing that, needing her closeness.  “But I do want to take you back to our hotel.”

She smiled a dazzling smile.  “I _am_ your date,” she replied airily, flirting sweetly the way she always did.  “So you can take me anywhere you like.”

He kissed her again.  _There’ll be another time,_ he thought, leaving her mouth to press his lips to her forehead and hug her tight.  _Another time.  Another chance.  The right moment._

He could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, finally, the last artwork for this little three-parter, done by the wonderfully amazing [vbprodz](http://vbprodz.tumblr.com)!


	46. In Heavenly Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Happy Christmas Eve, all! This one answers a prompt for Natasha helping Steve through his first Christmas in the future, so it's a tad bit on the angstier side. This one also has some mention of the religious aspects of the holiday season.

Even SHIELD practically shut down on Christmas Eve.  Everyone was going home.  Of course, emergency staff would stay on; evil never rested and never took a moment to celebrate, not even for one of the most important times during the year.  Still, the vast majority of its staff, soldiers and agents and technicians and personnel, were taking off.  Therefore, the Triskelion was remarkably quiet the night of December 24th.  Its halls were nearly empty, its many rooms and facilities practically deserted.  Even those among them who were more the loner type, those without families…  Work in this field of international espionage and covert operations tended to attract people without connections, without homes to which they could go, without even care or concern for the meaning and symbolism of the holiday.  However, even they had friends.  People with whom they shared the season.  People that they knew, trusted.  People to whom they turned so as not to feel the press of loneliness quite so sharply.  Even the most damaged of them had _someone_ upon whom they could rely.

Natasha sighed as she signed off on the last reports of the day.  It had been a long week of work, a rush of things to get done before she took tomorrow off.  It was with no shortage of relief that she emailed off the final documents to Sitwell.  Then she shut off her laptop and left the command center.  She felt light and excited as she strolled quickly through the halls.  Though the Triskelion was as serious and militaristic as ever, the Christmas spirit permeating the massive building was undeniable.  Today everyone had walked with more spring in his or her step, with happy smiles and eyes alight with anticipation.  It was nearly infectious, from the lowest interns and recruits all the way up to the higher echelons.  Even Fury had been in oddly good spirits when she’d seen him earlier, strangely patient when things hadn’t gone exactly according to plan during an ongoing operation, even more oddly forgiving of delays and miscues.  Simply everyone was excited for Christmas.

And she was more than she had any right to be.  As she headed back to the lower levels, she couldn’t help the smile creeping onto her face.  A couple of days off were nice enough, a true rarity in their line of work.  However, she was even more excited to spend Christmas Eve and Day with Clint’s family.  It had turned into something of a tradition since she’d joined SHIELD.  That first Christmas after he’d rescued her from the Red Room, she’d been completely lost, new to the country, to the way Christmas was here.  As a poor orphan girl in Russia, she’d never really experienced Christmas, not the pageantry or the good cheer or the sweet closeness of family.  In the Red Room, celebrating Christmas (and every other holiday) had been strictly forbidden.  Arriving in the States had been enough of a shock, but seeing everyone else anticipating and preparing and enjoying the buildup throughout December had been even more off-putting.  She’d already suffered through a complicated cultural displacement, but being separated from this board, communal social sense of closeness and goodness…  It had been difficult, to say the least.  Clint had immediately interceded before she’d even fully realized what was happening, inviting her to his family’s home.  That had been the first time she’d gone to his farm, and, again, she hadn’t realized the extent of both what he was risking and what he was doing for her.  She’d been so newly freed from the brain-washing of the Red Room that she’d hardly been stable, let alone acclimated, and he’d brought her amidst his wife and children.  That had been a huge risk and a huge gift, that he’d trusted her like that.

She’d gone every year since then.  She was as much a part of the Barton family’s traditions as turkey and gifts and the Christmas tree they put in the corner of the living room every year.  That first year and every one since, Laura had been nothing but sweet to her, gently welcoming and coaxing her into their lives.  Cooper and Lila now considered her their aunt as much as they did Laura’s sisters.  Christmas had turned into one of her favorite times of the year just because of this, that she could feel that sense of family and belonging.  Giving and togetherness.  She looked forward to finding gifts for Clint’s kids, for Laura, for Clint himself.  She looked forward to gathering for dinner on Christmas Eve and for Lila’s excitement over Santa coming (Cooper had long figured it out, but she hadn’t yet and Cooper was doing a really good job at keeping the magic alive and intact).  She looked forward to sleeping in their guest room to go down before dawn on Christmas morning to see what was under the tree.  Love and security.  Comfort.  That was what Christmas was about.

So she was in a rush to get going.  Clint had already called her a few minutes ago to make sure she was on her way.  He was going to meet her in the garage, and then they’d drive the few hours to his house.  They’d make it well before Christmas Eve dinner, and knowing Laura everything would be perfect and ready the second they walked in the door.  Natasha didn’t ever envision herself a wife, and she couldn’t become a mother, but in her dreams that she sometimes secretly entertained she pictured herself as a homemaker as good as Laura.  Laura was _amazing_.  Natasha could almost taste the turkey, the mashed potatoes, the phenomenal apple pie she made.  She hadn’t had much to eat that day, so she picked up the pace and walked briskly to the elevator.  Jabbing her thumb into the control panel, she waited as the lift was summoned, going over in her head one more time a mental checklist of everything she’d had to do for SHIELD and everything she had to bring to Clint’s.  By the time the elevator arrived, she was sure she was ready.

The doors opened with a chirp, and she plowed right into Steve.

He was coming out, looking exhausted and a little lost.  “Natasha, hi,” he greeted as they nearly collided.

Natasha stepped back.  “Oh, hi.  Did you just get back?”  She hadn’t seen him much that week.  He was doing some consulting work for the Army, so he’d been out of town.  Then he’d helped with a mission the STRIKE Team had completed overseas.  In fact, as she stood there staring at him, she couldn’t help but feel guilty that, not only had she not spent much time with him recently, she hadn’t even really thought about him.  They’d been partners for a few months now and had become friends.  Lately it had been something of comedy of mishaps that they’d barely worked together, with her spending more time assigned to Clint’s missions and Steve helping the STRIKE Team rather exclusively.  She got the feeling he didn’t like working with them.

Case in point.  He tried to hide a frown, and it wasn’t very successful.  “Yeah, just about an hour ago.  I need to go debrief Fury.”

That sat poorly with her.  Like everyone else was allowed to go home today but him.  With that, the shame tightened and knotted up even more inside her.  Everyone else was going home but him because _he had no home._   Sure, he had an apartment.  She’d been there, and it was nice, but it was something SHIELD had put together for him, something they’d thought he’d like, a place filled with things that weren’t his but were meant to remind him of his own time.  He had no home, and he had no one.  His family was gone.  His friends were all dead or terribly old.  This was his first Christmas seventy years removed from his life as it had been just a few months ago.  No wonder he looked like _this_ , a tad bent and pale with circles around his eyes that could only herald many recent sleepless nights.  No wonder he seemed weary and _homeless,_ in a sense.  She’d been so selfish, not realizing what this Christmas meant to her partner because she’d been so caught up in her own good cheer and preparations.  And now that she noticed, it was all she could see.  “You’re leaving after, though.  Right?”

He shrugged and managed a smile.  “Probably.”

She tried not to flinch, tried to seem casual even though she was worried.  “Have any plans?”

That was forward despite how light she kept her tone.  He shrugged again, and the pain in his eyes was all she needed to see to know the answer.  “Not really.  Probably go to a midnight mass.  There’s a really nice church down from my place a bit.”

Natasha couldn’t stand it.  All that euphoria, that excitement and sweet anticipation, was dashed like it had never been there at all.  Captain America was spending Christmas alone.  _Captain America._   That seemed so wrong on so many levels.  “You, um…”  God, what could she even say?  There had to be something because she felt responsible.  She was his partner first of all, so it was her job to look out for him (at least in these respects, when it concerned his acclimation to the 21st century and his mental health surrounding that).  However, more than that, she was his friend, one of the only ones he had in this time and place.  And she hadn’t thought to ask him before now if he was going to be alone.  She hadn’t thought to make sure that didn’t happen.  Plans had been made, traditions set into motion as they had been every year, and she hadn’t stopped to include him.  “I’m going to Barton’s tonight.”

He nodded, looking really uncomfortable.  “Sounds nice.”

It probably was too forward of her and not very polite to do this, but she was doing it without a second thought.  “You’re welcome to come.”

His eyes widened a bit at that ( _what’s with that?_ ).  He didn’t even consider it before rejecting it.  “No, no.  I couldn’t.  I don’t want to get in the way of what you guys have.”  _What we have?_   “Thanks, though.”  She was still somewhat stumbling over that as he stepped by her, light and fleet on his feet like he was afraid she’d physically catch him.  “I gotta get going.  Fury’s waiting.  Merry Christmas.”  She didn’t even get a chance to wish him that back before he was gone.

She stood there by the open elevator, not feeling good at all.  Aching inside really.  Her phone chirped, pulling her from her depressed stupor, and she dug it out from her pocket.  It was a text from Clint.  _“Coming?”_   She stared at the words on the screen, thinking about the list of things she’d bought and prepared for tonight.  Gifts she meant to give.  The joy and love she wanted to share.  Suddenly it all seemed distant and inappropriate.

Still, she texted him back.  _“On my way.”_   Then she got into the elevator and told the computer to take her down to the garage.  It took a few minutes to descend from the top of the Triskelion.  Outside, the last light of day was fading, giving way to darkening gray clouds and light flurries.  She stared morosely at it, chewing her lower lip, hating the world just a little where before she’d felt nothing but fond appreciation.  _It’s not fair.  He shouldn’t have to be alone._ What was he going to do?  Go to church?  And then what?  A miserable image went through her mind.  It was of him lying in his bed in the solitude of his apartment, bathed in shadows and tears in his eyes, silently weeping for things long gone but to him recently lost.  Ghosts whispering in the darkness, calling to him, and him wanting nothing more than to spend a Christmas with them…

The lift dinged as it deposited her down below in the garage, jolting her from her forlorn thoughts.  She sighed sharply, shook her head as if to clear it, and stepped outside.  Everything was very quiet because most everyone was already gone.  Empty parking spots flanked her far and wide.  She walked toward Clint’s car, which she spotted not far away.  “Hey,” he called from where he stood by the driver’s door.  “We better get going if we’re going to beat the traffic.”

Now she really hesitated.  She looked back over her shoulder at the elevators, slowing her pace even more, and Clint noticed instantly.  “Something wrong?  Did you forget something?”

Natasha sighed slowly, knowing then and there that there was no way should could just go.  It felt inherently _wrong_ , knowing what she’d just found out.  “Clint…  I don’t think I can come this year.”

Clint closed his driver’s door.  His face was placid, a touch surprised maybe, but he was keeping his reaction under control because he knew she wouldn’t be saying this without a good reason.  “Why?”

She sighed again, coming closer.  God, it hurt to do this, both because she’d been so excited to spend time with Clint’s family (she hadn’t seen them since Thanksgiving) and because she knew Lila and Cooper would be disappointed.  That bothered her more, imagining them upset because she wasn’t there.  But…  “I just feel like I need to be somewhere else this year.”  Now Clint’s own disappointment was becoming visible, and her mind raced.  “Just for tonight.  I’ll leave really early tomorrow morning and be there in time for presents.”

Clint frowned.  “Nat, if you’re busy, if something’s come up, you don’t need to–”

“It’s okay,” she assured.  Quickly she ran through it again in her head.  It could work.  If she left here early enough, she’d be there for Christmas morning.  She’d be exhausted, but she could catch up on sleep later.  She smiled to put him at ease.  “Really.  I just need to do something tonight.  Can you promise everyone I’ll be there soon and tell them I’m sorry?”

Clint sighed himself, but he nodded and smiled.  He was far too good a friend (and a man) to ever disparage her for a decision, even if he didn’t entirely understand.  “Alright.  Drive careful.  And text me when you’re on your way, just so I know you’ve left, okay?”

It was times like this Clint’s overly protective father tendencies really showed themselves.  But she only nodded.  “I will.  See you tomorrow.”

He looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t, only coming around to give her a hug. She hugged him back firmly, grateful he was and always had been so good and understanding with her, before wishing him a merry Christmas and heading to her Corvette where she’d left it parked that morning.

It didn’t take long to drive to Steve’s apartment, but she made a couple of stops first.  It was Christmas Eve, so not much was open, but she managed to find a grocery store.  She went in, purchased what she could, and then made her way to a liquor store to get a bottle of wine.  She wasn’t terribly certain of her ability to cook anything, so most of what she bought was premade.  It was still likely better than anything he had on hand, considering he’d been gone for the week.  She parked outside his building and gathered up their meal.  With her acquisitions in hand, she went up to his apartment.

Outside his door, she drew a deep breath and knocked.  It took a moment, during which she listened intently.  Was he there?  He should have finished his debrief by now.  Furthermore, his bike was here; she’d seen it across the street.  But, then, why wasn’t he answering?  Was he alright?  Had he gone and _made_ plans?  Suddenly she felt stupid in a way she never had before with him.  They’d been out a couple of times as friends, and they worked together exceptionally well.  He’d even saved her life not long ago after a solo mission had gone terribly wrong and she’d shown up here, hurt and bleeding.  However, she’d never been… _nervous_ like this.  Maybe she had this all wrong.  Maybe he wanted to be alone.  Maybe this wasn’t her place.  Maybe she was overstepping her bounds.  Maybe–

The door opened.  Steve was there, wearing jeans and a blue Oxford.  His face crumpled in confusion.  “Natasha?”

She smiled, lifting the grocery bags.  “Merry Christmas,” she said brightly.

Shocked, he shook his head.  “What are you doing here?”

“Bringing you dinner.  Is it alright if I come in?”

He seemed too confused to object, instead standing aside so she could enter.  She looked around his place.  Her memories of it from the night she’d been hurt were very foggy, so she spent a moment taking a good look now.  It was nice, spacious and well-furnished.  Just as she thought, though, it looked like a place someone had put together _for_ him.  There was very little personality to it.  Aside from some sketchpads on the coffee table and a few pictures that had clearly been moved there recently, there was no sign of him here.

And there were _no_ Christmas decorations.  _Nothing._   Natasha still didn’t much subscribe to all the nonsense with trees and garland and mistletoe, but his apartment felt cold and empty.  It made that ache come back, sharp and insistent.

Steve closed the door.  “I thought you were going to Clint’s.”

“Change of plans.”  She very boldly went right to his kitchen, setting the bags down on his counter.  She started unloading what she’d bought, cartons of mashed potatoes, turkey, green beans, stuffing, and salad.  There was also roast chicken, pasta salad, macaroni and cheese, and meatloaf.  She’d basically raided the store’s deli and prepared foods sections and taken whatever was available.  It was a random smorgasbord, but it looked good, at least.  She’d even bought a few slices of pie and one piece of cake.  “I didn’t know what you might like, so I got a little of everything I could.”

His brow was furrowed in confusion as he followed her over.  “Wow.”

“I mean, a turkey with all the trimmings was a little hard to come by this late in the game, but I think we can reheat this stuff and make a good meal out of it.”

“Natasha, you didn’t have to…”

She was already going, unsealing the containers and putting them in his microwave.  She started warming everything up.  “Mind getting some plates?  And do you have a wine bottle opener?”  She handed him the bottle of wine she’d procured.  “I actually spent some money on this, so it should be good.”

He took it, but there was pain in his eyes and an objection on his lips.  “Natasha–”

She reached for the plates herself because he seemed rather useless at the moment.  She flipped a few lights on, not liking the heavy shadows.  His dinette table was clear and looked like it had hardly ever been used.  A rogue image of him sitting there every morning, absolutely silent and absolutely alone, nursing a cup of coffee or a bowl of cereal, slipped across her head, and she gritted her teeth and shook it away.  She set the two plates adjacent to each other.  Then she turned around, where Steve was still standing like he couldn’t understand.  He probably couldn’t.  “Come sit down.  What time is mass?  Do you mind if I come with you?”

He gave a little jerk, a tiny aborted shake of his head.  “You don’t need to do this,” he whispered.  “You should go.  Be with Clint.  I’m–”

“You’re not fine,” she interrupted, stopping that nonsense before it even started.  She gave a slow breath, stopping in her rush of activity to get their dinner ready.  She went right to him, holding his gaze even though he tried to look away.  “You’re not.  And it’s okay.  I can move my plans.  Sometimes I need to look out for my partner.”

That wall she’d seen before that was holding everything back was wavering.  “Why?”

She smiled.  “Because I’m your friend.  And you shouldn’t have to be alone on Christmas.”  It took him a moment to accept that, to nod, and his gaze was filled with nothing but relief and gratitude.  Right then and there, she knew she’d made the right choice.  “So sit.  Let’s eat.  Tell me what happened on your mission.”

They sat and ate.  It didn’t take much, some easy camaraderie and a few minutes of distraction, for his mood to improve drastically.  The food was surprisingly good, piping hot and comforting, and they chatted about SHIELD and the STRIKE Team and what he’d done for the army.  After that, they sat on his couch and she picked a Christmas movie for them to watch, something light and funny, a “Christmas classic”, as she put it.  As Chevy Chase bumbled his way through his family’s Christmas disaster, he laughed and commented on the spectacle.  She sat beside him, close enough to feel how warm he was, how nice it was to _be_ so close.  She didn’t touch him, because even though he seemed lighter and happier, she could see it was a front and a brittle one at that.  She could see he’d been sleeping here, feel that the couch was indented in particular places from his weight.  And she could see the pictures he’d moved onto the coffee table.  They were black and white prints, old and lower quality.  One was of a woman, young and beautiful.  Another was of a young man with dark hair slicked back and a charming smile.  Then there was a group of men, all dressed as soldiers.  His friends.  She stole inconspicuous glances at the photos as the movie went on.  She wondered if she should ask, but she decided against it.  She’d let him lead, let him decide how comfortable he was with his memories.

The movie ended.  She told him more about it and other Christmas films since he’d been lost.  That was usually safe ground, the professional space of her educating him about the future.  After that, it was getting late.  “You really don’t have to come with me,” he said as he went to change into something nicer for church.  “You’ve already done enough.”

“It’s fine,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.  “I’ve never been to a midnight service.”  She’d never really been to _any_ service.  Clint wasn’t terribly religious, and neither was she, for that matter.  However, she knew Steve was.  Despite everything that had happened to him, Steve still believed, so this was important to him.

They didn’t say much else.  She drove them in her car to the church a bit from his apartment.  This was an extremely affluent neighborhood, so it was an amazing place, full of beautiful stained glass windows, vaulted ceilings, and exquisite architecture.  Full of history and meaning.  Full of wreaths and Christmas trees and religious symbolism.  Already the large cathedral was filling with people for the midnight service.  They went inside and found seats in a pew near the back.  Silently they waited for the service to begin.  Again, she chanced a quick look or two at him.  He stared ahead, eyes blank, face tight like he was trying to hide how much he was hurting.  Never once did he turn to her.  It seemed like he was a million miles away.

The service started.  It was very pretty.  She’d thought she wouldn’t be able to relate given the life she’d led.  In fact, she felt ashamed at first simply to be there, among these good, God-loving folk.  But as the minister began to talk of grace and forgiveness, of the spirit of giving and sharing, she realized she belonged just as much as anyone else.  The choir sang hymns, loud and clear that echoed through the magnificent church, and the congregation joined in.  It was touching, and she felt the power of it, sweet and sure inside.  Toward the end, the ushers came through, bearing little candles for each parishioner and tender flames with which to light them.  Together, everyone held a candle and sang “Silent Night”.

And Steve, who’d been trapped between past and present for the whole service, finally cracked.

It wasn’t much.  He hadn’t sung at all during any of the hymns and carols, but now he was stiffly quiet despite the beautiful melody and the chorus of worship around them.  Natasha watched, her heart breaking one beat at a time inside, as a tear tracked its way down his face.  At first there was one.  Then another.  And another.  What was he thinking?  Remembering?  Christmases with his family?  His youth in Brooklyn.  How they’d managed during the Great Depression, when love and togetherness had taken the place of lavish presents and pretty decorations.  How they’d survived during the war, when each moment they were still alive and safe was a gift in and of itself, a gift to be spent with brothers on the front lines.  The people he loved and who’d loved him.  The life from which he’d been torn.  He always bore it all so stoically, so calmly.  Now, on this day, he simply couldn’t.  He shuddered through a breath, those few tears slipping down his face, and then he reached up to wipe them away.

She grabbed his hand before he could.  He turned to her, surprised, but she only smiled.  _It’s okay.  You’re not alone._

After the service, they went back to his place.  He hadn’t said much of anything, but that was okay.  She parked the car, smiled tenderly at him, and he smiled back, more genuinely than he had all evening.  A couple of moments later they were at his apartment door, and he was unlocking it with steadier hands.  They went inside.

The place was dark but not quite as cold and empty.  He sighed, shaking through it again, and stared at his home.  At where he was now.  At who he was with.  “Thanks,” he said softly.

She nodded, knowing exactly how much he meant that.  “You want to get ready for bed?  I’ll clean up.”

“You should get going,” he said.

“I will in a minute.”

He disappeared into his bedroom.  She finished with the last of the dishes, washing and drying and not thinking at all save for appreciating an overwhelming sense of relief and purpose.  When everything was done, she returned to the living room.

He was already there, curled on the couch in front of his pictures, asleep.  She stared a moment, that ache back again but not quite as miserable.  This was more bittersweet, more accepting.  Quietly she crossed the room.  She grabbed the throw on the back of the couch and covered his large frame in it.  He snuggled into the cushion, breathing evenly and deeply, lashes pressed lightly to his cheeks.  He looked… _peaceful_.  She supposed she couldn’t ask for anything more than that.  Not this first time.  There would be more.  She’d always make sure he spent them with someone.  Friends and family.  _His friends.  Me._

Her heart swelled, and she felt peaceful, too.She smiled, threw reservation to the wind, and leaned down to kiss his forehead.  “Merry Christmas, Steve,” she whispered.

He actually smiled, too, a weak, sleepy thing.  “Merry Christmas, Nat.”

A few minutes later, she was sure enough to leave.  Sure he was okay.  Sure he knew he wasn’t alone on Christmas.  Sure she’d done exactly what she’d needed to.  Grinning, she got into her car, pulled out her phone, and texted Clint.  _“On my way.”_


	47. Merry Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Merry Christmas, everyone!

Natasha awoke to the sound of a baby crying.

It was very early in the morning, so early that their bedroom was still dark with shadows.  In the dim glow from their bathroom where a light was still on, she could see fresh snow against the windowpanes.  Beside her Steve was still asleep, turned on his side with the broad expanse of his back to her, burrowed under the duvet.  He was breathing deeply, evenly, and without really thinking she snuggled closer to his warmth and let herself drift back to sleep.

Then she heard it again.  A soft whine.  A whimper.  Her eyes opened on instinct.  The baby was definitely awake.  She sighed softly, glancing once more at her husband, but he was content to sleep through the disruption.  She supposed she could as well.  The baby wasn’t crying hard.  There really wasn’t a pressing need to get up and deal with it.  Perhaps, if left alone, the newborn would settle down again without her having to intervene.

She was already awake, though.  Pressing a light kiss to Steve’s bare shoulder, she got out of bed with a grimace.  She slid her slippers on and took her robe from where it was draped over the back of one of their chairs in the seating area by the bay window in their bedroom.  Wrapping the sash around her waist, she silently crept out of their bedroom.

She walked on light feet down the hallway, avoiding all of the spots that creaked when one stepped upon them.  The last door was the baby’s room, and she went in.  Sure enough, the little angel was fussing in the crib.  Smiling, Natasha breezed across the way, her robe and nightgown fluttering around her.  “Up already?” she whispered.  A pair of brilliant blue eyes immediately settled on her, and a little smile graced pink lips.  “Already?  Not letting Mommy and Daddy sleep at all, are you?”

The baby stared at her, squawking softly as she reached into the crib and gathered the blankets.  Securing them again, she lifted the tiny bundle against her chest.  “There we are.”  Immediately the fussing stilled.  Little fists tangled in her nightgown, in the hair that tumbled loosely down her shoulders.  Natasha swayed softly, hushing quietly, thinking for a moment that a little rocking might do the trick to get the little one back to sleep.  No such luck.  Those blue eyes were wide awake, eager for the day to begin.  She couldn’t help but smile at that, at those little bright, tenacious orbs watching her so intently.  _Just like Daddy._   “Do you know what today is?  Is that why you’re up so early?”  The baby didn’t answer beyond a little squeak.  “It’s okay.  I can’t sleep, either.  Too excited.  Know why?”  The baby murmured something into her shoulder.   Natasha chuckled.  “It’s Christmas.  You know what that means?”  She stroked the baby’s cheek.  “Presents!” she whispered.  “I think Santa came while you were dreaming.”

That got her another little squawk.  Natasha laughed a little louder.  “Should we go see?  What do you think?  See if he brought anything for you or for Daddy?  Or Mommy?”  Another tiny gurgle against her neck was all the affirmation she needed.  “Alright.  Let’s go.”

Cradling the tiny infant to her chest, she left the room.  Slowly she made her way to the steps, staying silent and fleet.  She was still Black Widow, and despite how her life had changed, a part of her would always be that.  Her feet knew how to step lightly, and her body knew how to shift so as to be a shadow among shadows.  She made her way down the stairs, one hand keeping the baby tucked and safe against her, the other grasping the railing.

The house was quiet.  It was as if it was holding its breath in anticipation for Christmas.  The tree was against the corner in the living room.  In the shadows, the glow of the lights was beautiful.  Hundreds of tiny spots twinkled, gold and white and red and blue and green.  Tinsel glittered in the colorful illumination.  Everywhere things were tastefully decorated, the things she’d amassed to turn their home into a pretty holiday scene.  Through the double doors across the way that led to the back patio and yard, she could see dawn slowly breaking, draping curtains of deep gray on the world.  It had indeed snowed last night, a good six inches.  She simply stared a moment because it was nearly picturesque, perfect, the pristine white coating the trees and ground in an undisturbed blanket.  It wasn’t often it was this magnificent on Christmas, but this year it seemed everything was in place.  Almost, at least.  That excitement that had danced about the back of her mind since she’d woken grew stronger and harder to deny.  _It’s Christmas morning._

And Santa had come.  There were loads of gifts beneath the tree, a huge array of packages.  Small boxes and big ones, all wrapped in pretty paper.  Bows twinkled in the lights, just waiting to be untied.  For the moment, though, it was calm, tense with that sweet sort of anticipation, and familiar butterflies fluttered somewhere between high in her stomach and low in her chest.  Once upon a time, Christmas hadn’t meant so much to her.  As a child, it had been nothing, a dream she in which she hadn’t been able to partake and thus couldn’t understand.  Then for years she’d participated in other family’s traditions, always welcomed and loved but still somewhat on the outside looking in.  With her own family, though, it was so different.  So much more.  So much _love._

The baby whimpered against her shoulder.  “Sorry.  I suppose you want to see,” she whispered, and she turned the infant around a bit.  “Yeah, you’re just like your Daddy.  He always wants to see everything, too.”  Those blue eyes went wide at the display of color.  “It’s nice, isn’t it?”  A soft whine answered.  “It’s a really nice tree this year.”  It was.  It was tall, full, and its needles were thankfully staying mostly on the boughs.  The entire house smelled like pine, too, which was pleasant.  The baby was far too little to reach for the branches as Natasha moved closer, but those blue eyes tracked the lights and the many ornaments as she walked around.  It was calming, touching, comforting, and exciting all at once.  It wasn’t often that she had time alone like this, especially on holidays, so she basked in the moment.  She lifted the baby higher, dropping a kiss into dark blonde curls, smoothing them lightly.  “You see that snowflake there?  Your Daddy gave it to me.”  The baby gurgled as if out of pride.  “And that…  That was from…”  She went on, pointing out all the ornaments on the tree and softly explaining from whom they’d come or where she’d gotten them.  The baby didn’t understand, of course, but that didn’t matter.  It felt like the life she lived was in front of her, glass bulbs and special keepsakes, memories and moments.  The things she’d done.  The people she loved and who loved her.  The _world_ she’d built.  She was nothing but proud.  The minutes drifting away as she quietly spoke and pointed and swayed, and Christmas morning dawned brighter and brighter.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she finally whispered, lifting the baby again to kiss a silken cheek.  She hugged the little body tight, heart swelling.  “So glad.”

“Mom?”

The soft voice from behind her drew her attention, and Natasha turned.  There at the bottom of the steps stood James.  He was wiping the sleep from his eyes, his blond hair mussed.  “Mom, what are you doing?” he asked around a yawn.  Softly he padded closer.

Natasha smiled.  “Nothing.  We were just looking at the tree.”  The baby began to fuss a bit without her own private show, so she started moving again.  It was amazing how things returned to you, even years removed from them.  “Isn’t that right?”

The baby cooed at her.  James came over.  His hand was huge, full of cords and sinewy tendons and strength.  His father’s strength.  His own.  For a moment, Natasha was overcome with a memory, rocking James just as she was now.  His tiny hand curled around her finger as she softly sang to him Christmas morning because he was up before dawn.  Now James towered over her.  He bent down to drop a kiss on his daughter’s forehead.  “Did she wake you?”

“Yes, but it’s alright.  I don’t mind at all.  It was nice to have some time alone with her.  Besides…”  She couldn’t help a knowing smile.  “You and Maya looked like you need the rest when you got here last night.”

James grunted a little laugh.  “Yeah, now I know what you always complained about with me being so high energy.”

“I wasn’t just saying it,” Natasha reminded.  “And she’s so little yet.  Just wait until she’s mobile.”  James grinned, running his fingers through the little girl’s hair.  She was only a month old, but she already looked so much like James had when he’d been a baby.  Her skin tone was darker, of course, given the dark skin of her mother.  So much of her face, though, and her expressions…  _Just like her Daddy._   “You did warn Maya what it’s like having a serum-enhanced child.”

James cocked an eyebrow.  “I think she already figured that out from dealing with me.”  Natasha grinned and looked back down at the baby.  She could vouch for how quickly one learned from her own experiences.  James and Maya had been together for a few years now.  Maya was Sam’s niece, a beautiful young woman who was smarter than anyone Natasha had ever known (and she personally knew some of the world’s smartest).  They’d met on one of James’ first missions with the Avengers, when Steve had led him and the team into LA on a mission to stop terrorists from unleashing some sort of deadly virus.  Maya was a microbiologist and had been at Caltech at the time.  She’d worked closely with James to prevent the outbreak.  Since then, they’d been almost inseparable.  They’d married last year and she’d gotten pregnant almost instantly.  Now Natasha could hardly believe she was a grandmother, cradling tiny Nadia Anne Rogers in her arms.

James was silent as he watched his mother hold his newborn daughter.  In the silence, the connection between all three of them felt so real it was nearly a tangible thing.  Again, Natasha could almost close her eyes and see James as he had been, a tiny baby in her arms at his first Christmas, a toddler reaching up to pull down ornaments, a little boy racing around in excitement with Joseph barely keeping up.  A teenager helping her decorate with these same ornaments that had become part of their traditions.  He was a grown man now.  So was Joseph.  Staring down at little Nadia (who James and Maya had named for her grandmother), Natasha felt her eyes burn.  Her little boy had become a young father.  Just as she and Steve had twenty-four years ago, James and his wife were beginning their own life, their own traditions.  For that reason alone, this year was so meaningful and just a touch bittersweet.

“You really don’t have to do this, Mom,” James said again.  “Maya made a bottle for her, so I can handle it.  Go back to bed.”

“And miss my granddaughter’s first Christmas morning?  Never.”  She reached up to cup her son’s cheek.  “You should know me better than that.”

James smiled knowingly.  He looked so much like Steve when he did that.  He put his arm around her, and they turned to look at the tree.  They were quiet, watching the lights and the first light of day tentatively reach across their old house.  James grunted nostalgically.  “Dad really went all out this year with the tree,” he commented.  “It’s huge.”

Natasha laughed lightly.  “You know your father.”

“Yeah, I do.  He probably promised you up and down that he wasn’t going to go big.  Then he and Uncle Buck went out together and came home with this monstrosity.”

“It’s a Rogers family tradition, your father and your uncle trying to outdo each other.”  She glanced to the door.  “And speaking of brothers causing trouble…”

James had probably heard the sound of footsteps out on the porch by the front door even before she had, so he was already on his way over, a huge grin on his face.  There was a soft knock, and James opened the door.  “Hey, little brother!” he greeted quietly, opening his arms to Joe and a burst of snow.  “You made it.”

“Hi, Jamie,” Joe said, an equally huge smile on his own face.  He came in, white slipping in all around him.  The two brothers embraced.  Joe was twenty now and off at school.  What he never quite gained in enhanced strength and speed he more than made up for in smarts.  James had taken his father’s place commanding the Avengers in the field, and Joe had gone off to make his own way.  He was more than capable as a fighter, and there were times he found himself involved in SHIELD’s work, but more often than not he was trying to do good in other ways.  He was still the quieter of the two brothers, the one more content to be in the background.  He was studying at Columbia now, but mostly he was traveling and being privately tutored by mankind’s top minds.  Bruce Banner.  Tony Stark.  Retired Avengers and loving uncles with all the time, means, and opportunity in the world to teach and nurture the new generation.  “Everything’s a mess with the weather.  I was lucky my plane was able to get in.”

James patted his back.  “Really good to see you,” he said, hugging him close again.

Joe pulled away.  It had been quite a few months since he’d been back to New York and home.  He’d been studying with Bruce in overseas for a while, somewhat incommunicado.  “Yeah, likewise.”  Nadia let out a little cry.  She’d dozed in Natasha’s arms, but now she was starting to fuss.  “Is that her?” Joe asked, pulling off his coat and hat.

James beamed.  “Yeah.  I’ll get her bottle ready.”

Joe came over after slipping his shoes off to keep the snowy mess by the door.  He smiled that sweet smile of his that Natasha loved so.  “Hi, Mom,” he greeted.  “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, baby.”

The cold was clinging to him, a crisp, wintry scent, as he leaned close to kiss her cheek.  His cheeks were red and his eyes were alight with relief to be home.  They widened, though, as he beheld his little niece for the first time.  They’d sent pictures when the baby had been born last month, but that wasn’t the same.  “Wow.  She’s so little.”

Natasha lifted the baby a little so Joe could see her better.  “About as big as you were when you were born.”

Having next to no experience with babies, Joe seemed hesitant and unsure, looking between Nadia’s face and his mother’s, but Natasha only nodded encouragingly.  He finally brushed a finger down the baby’s cheek.  When she opened her hazy eyes to look at him, his smile went wide with happiness and wonder.  “She looks like Jamie,” he commented, gently grasping her little hand.  “Though that nose is definitely Maya’s.”

Natasha had to agree.  Still…  “She’s got a lot of Rogers in her, that’s for sure.”  Including the super soldier serum, it seemed.  Onward it went, down from Steve to James to James’ daughter.  That felt right and fitting.  _The next generation._

Joe brushed the backs of his fingers down the baby’s tummy.  “She’s beautiful.”  Natasha had to agree with that even more.  _Beautiful and perfect._   “Dad sleeping?”

“Surprisingly,” she commented.  “If you’d told me your father would finally start sleeping the minute he gave up the shield, I’d have told you you were crazy.  But here we are.  I’d convinced myself for twenty years that it was always the serum.”  Joe laughed.  She stared at him, so happy to see him.  He looked older even in the last few months since he’d left, sporting the beginnings of a beard and hair that was a lot longer than he normally kept it.  “Everything okay?” she asked out of habit.

Joe actually rolled his eyes a bit, a very James-like thing to do.  “’Course, Mom.  Everything’s great.”  It wasn’t her fault it made her nervous.  He was gone, far away a lot of the time, so it was only natural she feared for him.  Granted, Joe had proven had numerous occasions that he could handle himself.  And James was Captain America now.  _Both_ her sons were grown men with lives of their own, fully capable of protecting themselves and the people they loved.  But it was hard to remember sometimes.  He, too, was still a sweet, innocent, little boy to her, running around their living room Christmas morning with his newest toy, boldly proclaiming he was going to take on the world’s evil.  He was doing just that now.  _Taking on evil._ Doing what they’d been born to do.  They both were.

That was the thing about kids.  They grew up.  And, more often than not, they grew up to be just like their parents.

James returned with the baby’s bottle nicely warmed and ready.  “I can do it,” he offered as Nadia started to fuss more.

“No, no,” Natasha said.  “It’s fine.  Let me.”

James didn’t look quite convinced, but Natasha leveled her now famous stare at him, and he was quick to acquiesce.  He handed her the bottle and a cloth.  She was so pleased with the opportunity, and she went right to one of the plush chairs beside the tree.  Her two sons watched her a moment as she got the baby situated in her arms.  Again, it all came back, how to cradle a newborn, how to get the bottle into her mouth.  Once Nadia was happily drinking away, she settled more comfortably.  Her sons were still staring.  “I’ve got this,” she said again, a tad more sharply.  “Go.”

James laughed, raising his hands in surrender.  “Alright, Mom.  I get it.  I get it.  You want to help me get some breakfast going, Joey?”

Joe grinned.  “You mean I cook, and you try not to burn the house down?”

“I’ll make coffee.”

Joe laughed, and together they went to the kitchen to get started.  A minute later there was the sound of cupboards opening and closing and them talking.  Maybe the content of the conversation had changed, and their voices were much deeper and lower, but the tone of it was the same.  James leading.  Talking much more.  Joking.  Making his opinions known.  Joey following along, not because he had to, but because he wanted to.  She could close her eyes and imagine them, James’ blond hair and Joey’s red pushed together as they huddled around some toy they’d gotten from Santa on Christmas morning.  She could almost imagine that, standing back and watching with so much love in her heart and a cup of hot coffee in her hands.  And Steve would sit behind them, his arms around them both as James excitedly told him how it worked or what it could do or any one of a million things.  Steve always had so many soft words of encouragement.

She opened her eyes when she heard him now.  He’d come down the steps, and at seeing that Joe was home, he was across the way to the kitchen in a couple of huge strides.  “Joey,” he called.

Joey turned in time to hug Steve.  “Hey, Dad.”

She could hear the relief in Steve’s tone, imagine him holding Joe tight.  “Was worried you wouldn’t make it in time.”

“And miss Christmas?  Never.”  Steve gave a little laugh that seemed a little muffled and perhaps a tad weak with emotion, and Natasha imagined he was hugging him again.  “How’s retirement treating you?  I see you’ve totally given up on shaving.”

“Likewise.  At least I have excuse.”

“Ha ha.  What have you been up to?”

“Lord, don’t even.  I’m so… so _bored_.  I’m actually doing home projects.  _Home projects._ It’s driving me nuts.”

“I can vouch for that,” James responded.  The smell of freshly brewed coffee was filling the house.   The three of them shifted a bit in the kitchen, and now she could see them.  Steve with his sons.  People found it a little disconcerting that he didn’t look much older than them.  James was nearly the age Steve had been when he’d participated in Project: Rebirth all those years ago, so while Steve was in his mid-fifties now just as Natasha was, he hardly seemed it.  Still, Natasha noticed it, particularly when he stood next to James as he was doing now.  It wasn’t obvious at all to strangers, but she could see the years on her husband.  It was mostly in his eyes.  He had the body of a young man but the eyes of someone who’d seen a lot and done even more.  The eyes of a father.  _A grandfather._   “It’s terrible.  Ever heard of backseat driving?  Try having your dad watching you do what you do from HQ.”

“Oh, come on.”  Steve nudged James away.  “I’m not that bad.”

“Really?  Who was it who told me last week that if I didn’t get my butt in gear and get the situation under control that he’d come out there and do it himself?  Could’ve sworn that was Captain America, backseat superheroing over comms.”

Joe laughed and Steve protested more.  A little gurgle in her arms drew her attention, and Natasha looked down.  Nadia was falling asleep, her milk nearly gone.  With her tummy full, her eyes were drooping, her little lips slack.  Natasha cradled her closer as she pulled the bottle away.  Before she even thought twice, she was humming quietly, humming the same song she had always sung for James and Joseph when they’d been babies.  She set the bottle down to settle the blankets around the baby better.  Then she closed her eyes and let the moment take her.

“You guys seen your mom?” Steve asked.  She didn’t quite hear the answer, but a few seconds later, Joe and James were talking quietly to each other again and Steve’s hand settled on her shoulder.  “Hey.”  She opened her eyes.  He looked sleep-mussed, hair askew and shirt a tad rumpled, but he was well-rested and completely contented.  Why wouldn’t be he, with his family home and safe and gathered for Christmas?  He gave a little surprised, appreciative sound.  “Haven’t heard you sing that for years.”

It felt good to sing it.  Everything felt so good.  “Trying to get her back to sleep.”

“You been up a long time?”

She shook her head.  Steve shifted to kneel at the side of the chair, setting a cup of coffee down on the table for her.  “Hi, baby girl,” he whispered, brushing his hand through Nadia’s hair.  The baby was completely contented, too, her little eyelids fluttering, her lips twitching in the beginnings of a smile.  Steve’s eyes glazed with a bit of bittersweet remembrance.  “I forgot what this was like.”

 _I haven’t.  Don’t think I ever could._   “She’s beautiful,” she whispered again.  It could never be said enough.  “Isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” he agreed.  “So are you.”  He leaned closer to kiss her, his beard soft and gentle against her skin.  When he pulled away, he let loose a long breath, putting an arm around her.  “We’ve come a long way, Nat, since that first Christmas.  Our first Christmas together.  Remember?”  She did.  Coming to him when he’d had no one.  That pull bringing her to his side.  And she’d comforted him.  Promised him and herself that he’d never be alone again.  It felt like a long time ago, and in some ways, it was.  But on this day, with a new grandbaby in their arms, with their sons home with them…  It was incredible, how fast it had all happened.  What their love had made.

Steve pressed his lips to her cheek before staring down at their granddaughter.  “You changed my life forever, gave me the greatest gift.  You know that, don’t you?”

“I was going to tell you the same thing,” she whispered, pulling him in for another tender kiss.

After that, with eyes twinkling with love and the good cheer of the season, he smiled.  “Merry Christmas, Nat.”

Natasha smiled, too, her heart swelling.  Snow softly falling.  Family all around.  Love and peace.  The memories of years past meeting with the promise of the future.  It meant more than she could ever say.  “Merry Christmas, Steve.”


	48. Auld Lang Syne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Happy New Year's! I hope 2016 brings you happiness and prosperity.

Back in Brooklyn, New Year’s had been one of Bucky’s favorite holidays.  Everywhere he’d looked there had been a party to attend, a dance or an event.  He’d been popular as a kid and a young man, so he’d typically had to make the rounds, as he thought of it, visiting this get-together or that soiree, greeting friends left and right and counting down the seconds until a new year began.  Even when he’d been poor and scrounging for every meal, on New Year’s there had always been good cheer.  Cheap drink and an abundance (well, an abundance for the era) of food.  There’d been people to see, best wishes to give.  That was what New Year’s was all about, after all.  Friendship and family.  The appreciation of times past, both good and bad, and the promise of new things.  New relationships.  New prosperity.  New dreams.  That was one of the reasons he’d loved it.  He’d grown up in a loving family, with two parents who’d taken an interest in and supported everything he’d done, with sisters who’d looked up to him, with his best friend right at his side.  He’d had his good health, his looks, and his smarts, and he’d always been comforted by that.  Still, times had been tough; there was no denying that.  So when New Year’s Eve came around, it was the one time of year where hope didn’t seem so silly and trite.

New Year’s Eve 2016, though, seemed so far removed from what he remembered that he didn’t know _what_ to feel.  It was his second year after Steve had found him and brought him home from HYDRA.  Because he’d been so mired in his recovery from what had been done to him last year, in a lot of ways this was effectively his first New Year’s since the Winter Soldier.  His first that he was _himself,_ or as much of himself as he could be nowadays.  He was slowly coming to terms with the fact that he was never going to be the Bucky Barnes who’d had those two loving parents and adoring sisters again or who went out on New Year’s, carefree and eager to ring in another adventure.  He wasn’t even the same Bucky Barnes who had his best friend at his side, even though his best friend _was_ at his side.  That Bucky Barnes, who’d done his absolute best to always make sure Steve had a good time at every party to which they’d gone even if no dame would pay the smaller boy mind, who’d always wished Steve a happy New Year’s with a silent prayer his friend would stay healthy and safe…  That man had died at HYDRA’s hands when he’d fallen from a train seventy-one years ago.  No, it had been before that even.  That _kid_ had died somewhere between being taken captive with the 107th and Zola’s lab in Azzano.

At any rate, things weren’t the same.  Fate might have been crazy, bringing both Steve and him through ice and hellfire to this moment more than seventy years removed from the last time they’d raised a glass to friendship on the frigid landscape of southern France to ring in 1945.  They were both terribly different, hardened in some ways, in enough ways that sometimes Bucky didn’t recognize himself (or Steve), and that had nothing to do with his damaged memories.  But here they were.  December 31st, 2016.  About to ring in 2017.

And Steve was married.  Steve was a father.

In some ways, that was the hardest thing to accept of all.

“You want some more beer, Buck?”

Bucky didn’t answer.  He was too busy watching James.  Steve and Natasha had invited him to spend the holidays with them, and he’d taken them up on that (mostly because he knew he had no choice – Steve would never let him be alone on Christmas).  He’d felt like nothing but an interloper since.  Natasha kept promising him it wasn’t a problem, that she didn’t mind him being with them at all, but he couldn’t believe her.  He couldn’t because it seemed impossible to accept, that she’d want the man who’d shot her and nearly murdered her husband in her house for the holidays.  With her newborn son.  For said newborn son’s first Christmas.  James was six months old.  He was tiny, a precious little bundle that was finally snoozing in Natasha’s arms as she fed him a bottle.  This was the thing that had happened this year that he couldn’t get over most of all.  Steve and Natasha had had a baby boy, and they’d named their son after him.  And, more than that, they wanted _him_ in their baby’s life.

Sometimes he wondered if this wasn’t all some cruel trick HYDRA was playing on him.  Or his own mind.  Some sort of way to ease the pain, a fantasy or something.

“Buck?”

“What?”

Steve smiled.  “Beer?”  He waved a bottle at him.  Lord, he looked tired.  He had for the whole of the last week, ever since Christmas Eve.  Thankfully the world’s evil had taken pity on the Avengers during the holiday season, so there hadn’t been any impromptu crises with which to deal.  No, Steve’s exhaustion was borne solely from parenting a child about who was about as much trouble as he was.  James was enhanced by the serum; that had been obvious from about the second he’d been born.  He ate like a horse.  He was extremely advanced for an infant, physically, socially, and cognitively.  He hardly slept, which Bucky had discovered shortly into his stay when he heard Steve up every night and sometimes _all night_ with him.  Thanks to the serum, Steve didn’t need much sleep, either, but Bucky could see fatigue was really setting in now.  And Natasha looked much the same.  She’d been more calm and comfortable these last few days than Bucky could ever recall seeing her, wearing loose clothes and not as much make-up, hair not done up or styled as perfectly as she typically had it.  Part of that was definitely from weariness, too.  Still, he liked to think part of it was simple acceptance of his presence, like she didn’t need to pretend to be anything more than exactly what she was around him.  They’d trained together in the Red Room.  They’d been both allies and enemies.  But ever since she’d married his best friend, ever since he’d crept into her hospital room right after James’ birth to see the new baby that they’d named for him, he’d become family.

Steve’s face fell, and Bucky realized he’d been drifting again.  He’d been doing that a lot this last week.  Steve got worried, but he didn’t need to be so concerned all the time.  He just didn’t realize that Bucky found so much comfort in the _silence_ in his head, the stability of his own thoughts and personality, the firm foundation of his memories.  “Nah, I think I’ll wait for champagne,” he finally said with a smile.

Steve grinned, too, and went about clearing the dinner plates from the table.  It was late (well, late for dinner).  They’d tried to eat earlier, but James had gotten very fussy which had tied Natasha up, and even though she’d insisted they start without her, Steve had insisted they not.  So that led to a repeat of Christmas Eve, where dinner was served late (and a little cold – Bucky was quickly seeing this was another facet of parenthood, never having dinner when it was ready).  It had still been tasty, steak and some sort of seafood pasta thing Natasha had made.  It was past nine o’clock now, and the house was really quiet.  Even the Christmas lights looked tired where they still shone on the tree.  Natasha yawned.  “I’ll get him to bed before he passes out completely,” she said, running her fingers through James’ hair.  She smiled faintly, shaking her head as if to clear it.  “Or I do.”

“I can do that,” Steve said, quickly coming back to the table.  He held his arms out for James.  “You need to get a second wind.”

“I need to?  You were drifting, Rogers.  You almost face-planted in your salad.”

Bucky smiled because it was true.  Steve shot him a heatless glare.  “What?” Bucky said.  “Don’t look at me.  You’re like a zombie in one of Sam’s video games, only less gooey.  Probably about as brain dead, though.”

Again with the half-hearted glare.  Natasha gently passed James’ nearly slumbering form, blankets and burp cloths and all, into Steve’s arms.  “Gotta rally,” Steve declared.  “Otherwise we’re never gonna make it to the ball drop.”

Natasha shook her head, resettling James before standing.  Her joints seemed to creak as she stretched.  “I’ve never understood the purpose of it,” she declared, gathering some more plates as Steve pulled James close to his chest.  She yawned again, covering her mouth as she picked up a salad bowl.  “Excuse me.  Anyway, what does a giant lighted ball descending over Times Square have to do with the New Year?”

“Dunno,” Steve softly answered.  Now he was yawning like it was contagious.  “All I know is it’s something that’s older than we are, so hurray for that.”  He winked at Buck.  “Be back in a minute.  Pray he’s down for good.”  He tucked James’ sleeping form somehow closer, the baby tiny against his broad chest and enfolded in his huge hands, and headed silently upstairs.

Bucky watched him go.  He felt Natasha’s eyes on him.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” Bucky replied, waving his hand through the air dismissively.  “Just still takes some getting used to.  Seeing him like this, I mean.”

Natasha smiled thinly.  “Yeah.”  She really didn’t know.  Bucky liked Natasha a lot, even though she made him uncomfortable.  They were cut from the same cloth, had seen and felt the same sort of darkness, so they understood each other in ways Steve never would.  But all the effort Natasha put into making it clear she _didn’t_ resent Bucky for the things he’d done, for taking Steve’s time and attention as much as he had, for _hurting_ Steve as badly as he had, only reinforced Bucky’s perception that she did.  Natasha was hard to read.  The Winter Soldier might have been the Russian’s weapon in battle, but she was far from a blunt force instrument of war.  She’d been a shadow, the true threat in the darkness, the best spy the world over.  So she understood him.  She intimidated him more.  And she didn’t seem to realize there was parts of Steve that _he_ knew and _she_ didn’t.  Not that it was a contest or any such nonsense, but the crazy circumstances of it all made everything upside down.  This new Steve, the Steve of the 21 st century and the Avengers, the Steve who had a baby cradled to this chest, _that_ Steve she knew better than he ever would.  But little Steve Rogers from Brooklyn who couldn’t manage a few sips of champagne on New Year’s Eve without getting a little tipsy, the one who never ran from a fight and always put his best foot forward even with newspapers stuffed in his shoes because there were holes in his soles…  She didn’t know that Steve like he did.

And that Steve seemed very far away from the here and now.

As if she could read his glum thoughts, she smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder before leaning over to grab more dishes.  Feeling antsy all the sudden, eager to do something to get his mind off the past (oddly enough), Bucky stood.  “I got this.  Just sit.”

“You don’t need to clean up my house,” she replied a bit irately.

“Sure I do,” he replied.  “My mother didn’t raise me to be a slouch.  Or a bad guest.”  He made her sit down because she looked about ready to keel over from exhaustion (now the bags under her eyes were really apparent and about as huge as saucers).  Then he gathered up the rest of the dishes and took them to the kitchen.

“You and Steve ever go see the ball drop?” she eventually asked as he started washing.

“Nah.  Believe it or not, there was a time when living in Brooklyn and going to Manhattan was like having to go into enemy territory.  We didn’t do it unless we had to.”  He scraped the food into the garbage disposal.  The wonders of domestic life in this day and age never ceased to amaze him.  In some ways, even though he’d been “unfrozen” during many of the technological advances of the last seven decades, he knew even less than Steve did.  The Winter Soldier had never had the occasion to use a dishwasher, for example, which he was loading up now very quickly.  “Plus most of the time we were too poor to get over there.  There were better things to do around the neighborhood.”

“Parties?”

“You got it.”

“Can’t imagine Steve at a party like that.  Can’t imagine him drunk,” she commented.  “Oh, can you put the bottle of champagne in the fridge?  I forgot to.  Probably won’t get cold in time.”

He reached over to pull it from the counter and do as she asked.  “He was a lightweight, no doubt about it.”

“Not so much now.”

Bucky grunted.  “No.”  Suddenly an image of Steve one New Year’s Eve – 1938, maybe?  Sarah hadn’t been gone yet – filled his head.  His memories still came somewhat randomly sometimes, and he couldn’t always place them correctly.  They’d gone to Grace Gardner’s for a party, and Evelyn Jameson had been there.  What a looker that girl had been.  And Bucky had been doing his darnedest all night to get her to dance with Steve.  To let him give her a kiss on New Year’s.  She’d never thought twice about him, though, going after Bucky himself instead, and when Bucky had pushed her one more time as the entire room had counted down the last seconds of the year, she’d said, _“He’s not enough of a man to marry.  He’s not enough to even have fun with, James.  Let it go!”_

Steve had overhead her.  Bucky could picture the hurt on his face as clear as day.  He’d left her without a New Year’s kiss, left her as everyone else had sung “Auld Lang Syne”, left them all and gone to walk Steve back to their tenement.  Bucky had kept it light.  He could hear his own voice echoing through the streets.  _“Don’t let it get you down, Stevie.  New possibilities, right?  She doesn’t know what she’s missing.”_

_“She knew, Buck.”_

_“Then she’s a moron.  She’s one old acquaintance we’ll gladly forget.”_   That had gotten Steve smiling. _“You’ll find the right girl someday.  Someday, you’ll be giving a New Year’s kiss.  Someday.  And someday you and I are gonna be someplace better than here.”_   Steve had given a doubtful, placating smile, and Bucky had thrown his arm around him.  _“Happy New Year’s, Stevie.  It’s gonna be a good one.”_

He wondered what that girl would think now, knowing she’d demeaned and turned down the man who would become Captain America.

Steve came back down thankfully without James and walked into the dining room.  He kissed his wife.  _Kissed his wife._   “He’s sleeping.  You want to get this party started?”

Natasha laughed and went to get dessert.

They sat at the table again and shared cake and a few drinks and played Scrabble.  Bucky’s spirits immediately lifted as the night dissolved into good cheer and laughter.  The first round Natasha kicked both their butts predictably.  They were setting up a second game, a bottle of wine mostly gone and the cake nearly devoured, when Steve tried to insist that “schwa” was a word.  The game pretty much fell apart after that.  Bucky argued he was being a moron, and Steve vehemently proclaimed it was real, and Natasha had had to settle the debate by looking it up on her phone only to discover it _was_ real.  “It’s the little upside down ‘e’ thing.  In the dictionary.  ‘An unstressed central vowel’,” Natasha read.  “Huh.”

Then it became a matter of intent, since Bucky was absolutely sure that Steve hadn’t known it was legitimate when he’d played it, to which Steve had declared that intent was irrelevant, to which Natasha had said they were both idiots.  “Use it in a sentence,” Bucky demanded.  “Come on, Rogers.  _Try._ ”

Steve tried to keep a straight face.  “Um…  Your schwa is showing?  I see your schwa is as big as mine?”

“Quoting _Spaceballs_ is not the answer to everything,” Natasha reminded, rolling her eyes, “no matter what Tony says.”

“A schwa is an unstressed vowel in a word.  There.  Done.”

“A definition doesn’t count.”  Bucky took his points away.

“Not fair, you jerk!  Those are mine.”

“Bull-schwa,” Bucky returned.  They’d laughed with that sort of giddy craziness that came from being punch drunk on fatigue.  Hearing him giggle like this reminded Bucky so much of so many New Year’s past, where they’d been light and tipsy and Steve had laughed at all his dumb jokes and bad antics.  This was the only kind of drunk Steve could get nowadays, so that was something.  It was nice to see him this happy, even if Bucky knew things would only go downhill from here.  Steve was crazy if he thought he was going to stay awake another hour and a half.

After that, they retired to the couch in the living room to watch the ball drop on television.  Natasha and Steve settled on the bigger sofa and Bucky took the chair.  The high from the fun of the board game lasted a while, and they chatted as good friends did.  _This_ was the sort of moment Bucky had wanted (and feared) the second Steve had invited him over for the holidays.  It was hard to let go completely, to simply let himself be part of this.  This life Steve had made for himself.  Maybe Bucky had been free from HYDRA for almost two years now, but a part of him felt as though he’d never be ready to have something like this no matter how many jokes Steve told or times Natasha implored him to relax.  He’d been dreading it all through the holidays, when things had been more tense and awkward.  Still, it came surprisingly easy.  He could just be Bucky, maybe not the Bucky he had been, but not the Winter Soldier.  Someone new.  Steve’s brother in this new life.  Natasha’s friend.

Eventually Bucky realized no one was talking anymore.  It was just the quiet comfort of his own thoughts again.  He glanced over to Steve and Natasha and shook his head ruefully with a small smile.  “Rogers.”

Steve jerked awake, eyes popping open.  “What?  What?”

Bucky threw a blanket from the chair to him.  “You’re going down.”

“Am not,” Steve replied stubbornly.  He rubbed his sleep-heavy eyes.  This crazy plan of theirs to stay up to ring in the New Year was turning into a losing battle with exhaustion.  Of course, some parts of Steve were still Steve no matter where or when he was, and admitting he was licked?  Never.  “It’s New Year’s.  We’re gonna make it.  Right, Nat?”   Natasha didn’t answer.  “Nat?  You awake?  Gotta stay awake.  Nat?”

She was snuggled on his chest, burrowed between his legs.  “’m awake,” she mumbled into his shoulder.  “What time izzit?”

“Eleven thirty,” Bucky supplied.

“’leven thirty,” Steve slurred.

“’kay.”

“Gotta make it,” Steve said again.  His head kept lolling back onto the arm of the couch.  Frankly, Bucky was surprised they’d made it this far considering how tired they’d been.  They’d both gone through and depleted a second wind (and a third and a fourth) ages ago.  “It’s almost 2017.  Ain’t that crazy, Buck?  2017.”

Bucky smiled.  “Sure is.”

“Old acquaintances.”  Somehow Steve found the energy to flash a bratty grin.  “New beginnings.”

Bucky gave him a wan look.  “You think you’re so clever.”

Steve didn’t answer.  He was absolutely passed out.  Just in those couple of seconds, he’d closed his eyes, snuggled down into his wife, and slipped into the land of Nod.  And Natasha had already gone there quite happily.

Now the house was really quiet.  Bucky stared at the two of them, curled up in each other and completely dead to the world, _worn out by a six month old._   He sighed, standing up and grabbing the throw where it had fallen to the floor beside the couch.  He draped it over them both.  None of this seemed possible.  Not that Steve could be so different, not just Captain America but a father and a husband.  Not that Bucky could be here, so very different himself, lost in some ways but found in others.  How much his life had changed.  _Old friends.  New world._   Steve was stupidly poetic when his brain was mush from sleep deprivation.

 _And speaking of sleep deprivation._   Over the baby monitor on the table, he heard a squawk.  Bucky went still, rigid as though this was the most horrifying experience of his life (which was ridiculous, considering the terrible things he’d faced).  He found himself praying.  _Please don’t wake up.  Please don’t wake up._   But there was another cry, a whimper, a louder squeak.  Bucky grimaced and raced to get to the monitor.  He turned it off before it could wake Steve and Natasha.  Thankfully, they slept on.  Of course, as he stood there, his enhanced hearing picking James’ increasingly loud wails up through the ceiling, he realized they needed to get up.  He couldn’t take care of him.  He didn’t know what to do.  He _shouldn’t_ take care of him.

Right?

Bucky stood there, feeling torn and helpless, for what felt like a long time.  That ugly feeling of being wrong in his own skin was back.  Sure, Steve had named his son after him.  And Steve and Natasha had let him in their lives, let him spend the holidays with them like he _belonged_ here.  And he’d held the baby a few times.  But he’d never done it alone.  Steve or Natasha had always been right there.  He’d never come near James alone.  It wasn’t right for him to do that.  He’d done so much harm.  He’d put Steve in the ICU.  He was…  _I’m…_

 _James’ uncle._   Not by blood but by every way it mattered.

Suddenly he was going up the steps.  Suddenly he was softly making his way into the nursery.  And suddenly he was right there at the crib.

James was sitting up, staring at him with huge, wet blue eyes, and Bucky stared back.  For a long moment, Bucky stayed absolutely still, fearing his mere presence would send James screaming.  It didn’t.  James just looked at him, maybe a little uncertain but not fearfully.  _Not fearfully._   “Hey, little guy,” he eventually started.  James’ face scrunched up and he started squirming again, rolling onto his side and whining.  “What’sa matter?”  The baby keened.  “No, no.  Don’t do that.  You, um…”  James got louder and louder.  “Um…”  _Go get Steve.  You can’t handle this._   But Steve was exhausted.  The thought of waking him or Natasha up was just cruel.  He’d seen Steve up every night with the baby.  He could…  He could do that, couldn’t he?  So Steve could sleep?

Boldly Bucky reached into the crib, trying not to notice how heinous his metal hand looked against James’ new skin.  He pulled the baby up.  “Okay, okay,” he hushed.  He tucked James up into his shoulder like he’d seen Steve do countless times.  The baby continued to squirm, crying unhappily.  “What is it?  You hungry?”  That didn’t seem likely.  James had had a huge bottle just a couple of hours ago.  “You… um.”  He patted the baby’s bottom lightly, but he was dry.  James mewled a little more contentedly with that, snuggling closer, and with his metal hand holding him tight, Bucky grabbed the soft, fleece blanket from the crib and wrapped it around the baby like Natasha did.  He fumbled a bit but got it done.  Now James squawked quietly, gurgling into his shoulder, and ceased fussing as Bucky patted.

Relief about as strong as he’d ever known it rushed over him.  He smiled despite himself.  “You just don’t like sleep, do you.”  James grabbed at his hair.  Bucky chuckled.  “Come on.”

Carefully he went back downstairs.  The room was still dark save for the Christmas Tree and the light of the TV.  Steve and Natasha were still sound asleep on the couch where he’d left them.  James eyed them curiously as they approached.  “Yeah, you’re givin’ ’em a run for their money,” Bucky whispered.  James made a little noise Bucky could only describe as proud.  He chuckled.  “I’m thinking you and me can watch the ball drop, huh?  And they can sleep.  How’s that sound?”  He carefully stepped around his friends and settled back down on the chair.  On the coffee table, the bottle of champagne was untouched, corked still, the three glasses idle and empty.  “Don’t spose it’d be right to have a toast with you.  Kinda feel like toasting now.  Didn’t before.  Haven’t for a while.”

James gurgled and smiled at him.  Bucky smiled back.  Then he got comfortable, keeping his metal hand securely on the baby’s tummy, James on his lap and with his back pressed to Bucky’s chest.  The baby pulled Bucky’s other hand with surprising strength, reaching for his little blanket to get a corner of it into his mouth.  Bucky smiled.  “You know something?”  James didn’t answer of course other than to gum and drool on his blanket.  “I think it’s gonna be okay.”

On the TV, the ball was starting to drop.  People were counting down, the millions of them in Times Square.  Everyone on the East Coast was probably watching, waiting, and counting down, too.  When the ball hit the bottom, the new year lit up, and the crowd cheered.  Confetti was thrown, tons and tons of it, so thick it was like snow.  The roar of excitement and exuberance was loud and sweet.  And the song started.

_“Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?  Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne…”_

Bucky smiled.  Aside from the soft noise of the TV, the house was quiet.  The world was just him and little James Rogers, ringing in the New Year.  He lifted the baby up, feeling better than he had in a long time.  _Old acquaintances,_ he thought, staring into Steve’s features on his son’s smiling face.  _New world._ “Happy New Year, little guy.  I think…  I think it’s going to be a good one.”


	49. Now We Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I know I said I was going to focus on "No Man Is an Island", but this popped out for a friend and fellow mother who's having a tough week. Anyone who's been through something like this knows how awful it is. I talk about some cardinal rules of parenting in this chapter, and I think this is the biggest one of all: this too shall pass. Hang in there, my dear!

Joseph wouldn’t stop crying, and Natasha had no idea what was wrong.

He’d been cranky all day.  He’d woken up unhappy that morning.  He’d hardly napped, which was unusual for him.  He also had not eaten much, which wasn’t as strange since he didn’t tend to devour food like James did.  Still, he’d had far less than he normally ate at both breakfast and lunch.  He hadn’t been playing, hadn’t been interested in his normal things.  It was spring now, so she’d taken the boys to the park, but while James was his usual enthusiastic self, Joseph had only wanted to be close to her, sitting on her lap with a frown on his little lips.  He hadn’t even gotten down _once_.  She’d known then beyond a doubt that something wasn’t quite right.

But now she was terrified of how _wrong_ whatever it was _was_.

“Is he just tired?” Steve asked.  He, too, looked at a loss.  Natasha paced the baby’s room.  Joseph wasn’t even one yet, barely even toddling around, still sleeping in a crib.  She had him in her arms, trying to comfort him as he fussed and cried.  Not even one year old.  Not really talking beyond a few words.  _Mama.  Dada.  Juicie.  Uppie._   He couldn’t tell them what was wrong.  “Did he nap today?”

“Not really,” she answered.  She rubbed the flat of her palm up and down Joe’s heaving back, trying to comfort him.  Dinner had been a crabby, miserable affair with the baby refusing to eat a thing and whining angrily in his high chair the entire meal.  _“Down!  Down!  No!”_   That had been the sum total of the dinner conversation for everyone.  Joe being cross had made James cross, too.  James had done a remarkable job that day with _not_ being difficult (he’d been in preschool for the morning, so that had helped, but that had been before everything had gone downhill so quickly).  Still, he _was_ exhausted, having played hard at the park, so when Joe started to make a rather loud statement of how unhappy he’d been, James had followed right along.  There were a few cardinal rules of parenting, Natasha had discovered.  One, anything that could go wrong invariably would go wrong.  Two, even when you won, you didn’t actually win since you had to waste the time, effort, usually money, and definitely patience on the battle.  And, three, crabbiness spread like the plague.

“Daddy!” James shouted from the bathroom, yelling at the top of his lungs to be heard over the din.  Steve had left him in the bathtub for a few minutes.  So far bath time tonight had been like World War III with Joe being so easily upset and James making a pain of himself to get attention and two tired, concerned parents.  Joseph had been crying for almost an hour now.  Natasha was extremely worried.  She could tell Steve was worried, too.  Joe was normally such an easy baby.  He was high-energy of course, but he was happy and easy to entertain.  James had been a handful, but Joseph tended to be quieter and more serious.  Even as a newborn, he’d barely fussed.  This was really out of character for him, so naturally they were concerned.  Fretting, even.  And James was jealous.  _“Daddy!_   Get me out!”

Joseph wailed louder, working himself up again.  His cheeks were wet with tears, and his little face was red and scrunched up as he cried.  “Shh, shh,” Natasha whispered, aching inside with mounting helplessness.  “It’s alright.”

_“Daddy!”_

“James!” Steve barked, leaving the nursery to go back to the bathroom.  “Can’t you hear something’s bothering your brother?  Stop making a nuisance of yourself!”  Natasha could hear him starting to drain the tub.  He got a hold of his irritation quickly (Steve always did), but obviously his tension wasn’t so easy to dismiss.  “I’m gonna get you to bed, okay?  But I might need to help your mom, so have some patience.”  His footsteps echoed down the hall as he got a towel from the closet.  Obviously he’d forgotten to acquire one before starting the bath.  “Now come on.”

“Sorry, Daddy,” James said.  His voice sounded absolutely apologetic, but James was good at playing people and faking it sometimes so it was hard for Natasha to tell how repentant he actually was without seeing his face.  “What’sa matter with Joey?”

Steve was herding him down the hall toward his room, wrapped in a towel.  Obviously he’d also forgotten to get pajamas.  “We don’t know.  He’s probably overtired.”

Natasha wanted to think that, but she couldn’t.  Instead she started pacing again, holding the baby tighter.  He squirmed like he was uncomfortable, but she couldn’t figure out why.  He was freshly bathed, dressed in a soft, warm sleeper, snuggled up in his favorite fleece blanket.  Not being able to reason this out was distressing, to say the least.  She pulled him back from her, knowing it was futile but trying anyway.  “Joe, what’s wrong?  Tell me.”

Joe was gasping through sobs.  “Mama,” he whimpered, rubbing his head against her shoulder.  He made an aborted grab for his face, toward his ear, and then screamed louder.  “Mama.”

Lord, this broke her heart.  She felt so… so… _useless._   “Tell me what’s bothering you, baby.  New teeth?”  She’d thought that instantly, but as far as she could tell he wasn’t breaking any new teeth.  His gums didn’t look red or swollen or anything.  Maybe she just couldn’t see them yet?  He wasn’t exhibiting any of the other signs of teething that she knew well from experience, aside from irritability.  “Did you hurt yourself and Mama didn’t see?”  She couldn’t imagine when that would have happened.  Maybe while she’d made dinner.  Joe and James had been playing in the dining room while she’d cooked, but she hadn’t heard anything go wrong.  And his crabbiness had started long before then.  Joe had been so lethargic and cranky come dinnertime that he hadn’t even gotten up from his toys to go greet Steve at the door, which was _unheard of._   “Did you eat something that made your tummy hurt?”  Again, _no._   He hadn’t hardly had anything to eat, and everything he had had been his usual fare.  Natasha slipped her fingers through damp, red curls, wracking her brain but coming up with nothing.  “What’s the matter, Joe?  Tell me.”

Joe just cried harder.

Eventually she got him calm again, after walking around his room seemingly a million times, patting him and humming and shushing.  His wailing dropped off to weeping and his weeping then to sniffles.  Not long after that, his face was tucked into her neck, breathing through little hiccups and the shuddering remains of sobs.  He’d worn himself out and was asleep.

Natasha wasn’t ready to let him go yet, though.  Truth be told, she was worried.  Maybe it had all been some sort of bad day that had thrown their whole family into a tailspin, but something inside – her gut, mother’s intuition, she didn’t know _what_ – said otherwise.  She sat in the glider in his room, still there from when he’d been a newborn and she’d nursed him, and cradled him against her.  She rubbed his back, the disquiet buzzing in her veins.  She was almost itchy with how rattled she felt.

She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, worrying and wondering and trying to figure out what had gone wrong, before Steve silently crept back into the room.  “He’s down,” he whispered in reference to James.  He came over, laying his hand gently on Joe’s head where it was tucked into Natasha’s neck.  “Everything okay?”

Natasha looked at him.  She’d be praying _he’d_ have the answer to that question, or at least some idea of what was going on, but she could tell from the open, concerned look in his eyes that he didn’t.  “I…”  She swallowed down her aching heart.  “I think so.”

“Let me take him.”  She didn’t stop Steve from gently and oh-so-carefully pulling Joseph’s slumbering body from his wife’s embrace.  This was another cardinal rule of parenting: never wake a sleeping baby.  One became exceedingly well-versed in ways to transport and reposition children without disturbing them.  Once Steve had him extricated from Natasha’s arms, he planted a light kiss on Joe’s forehead before transferring him, blanket and all, into his crib.  He tucked him in, a sad, tense smile on his face.  “Sweet dreams, little guy.”

After that, he led her to their bedroom.  They were both weary and worn out, so they silently went through their own bedtime routines.  Natasha’s mind was still whirling through _everything_ , replaying her day with all the details she could remember, as she changed into an old pair of pajamas and brushed her teeth.  She ended up in bed, snuggled up to Steve with the lights in their room off, without her even realizing it.  She laid on his chest, his hand now running comfortingly up and down her back.  Draping her arm across his stomach, she stared up into the shadows overhead.  Long minutes crept away, and the silence persisted.  The house was very quiet, eerily so after all the crying that day.  Even though she hadn’t looked at his face, she knew Steve wasn’t sleeping.  His heartbeat beneath her ear was too fast, his breathing not at all settled.  She wondered if he couldn’t shut his brain off either, if it was Avengers business or something at SHIELD or Joe’s behavior that was bothering him.

It was Joe, of course.  “Something happen today?”  His voice was a low rumble, but in the quiet it felt thunderous.

She sighed, frustrated.  “I don’t know.  I don’t think so.  He was out of sorts all day, though.”

He didn’t say anything to that for a moment.  “Kids have bad days,” he finally murmured, like he was trying to convince himself.  “James did.”  He paused, now like he was trying to remember.  “Didn’t he?”

Sure, he had.  But she didn’t remember them being like this, with him being quite so… _inconsolable._   That was the word.  No way to fix it.  _No way to make it better._   That particular thought made her go back to a moment at James’ preschool not too long ago, where she’d been talking to another mother.  She generally did that for appearance’s sake, not so much because she could relate all the time.  At any rate, the woman had been relaying a story about her younger daughter acting not like herself for days, and the mother had tried everything to ease and comfort her, but in the end she’d taken her to the doctor only to find out she had strep throat.  Natasha’s eyes popped open.  “Steve?”

Steve had been drifting.  “Hmm?”

“Could…”  It wasn’t possible, was it?  “Could Joe be sick?”

She felt Steve tense beneath her, clearly surprised by the idea.  He was quiet, though, and so was she, and with good reason.  Both the boys had inherited the super soldier serum.  With James it had been obvious from the moment she’d felt him inside her, from the moment he’d been born.  He was every bit his father’s son.  Joseph, though…  Bruce had done the genetic tests when Joe had been born, same as James, and he had the markers for the serum in his DNA (well, the markers of which Bruce was aware – he still didn’t entirely understand how the serum worked, and he was the world’s foremost expert on it).  Lately, though, Natasha had been wondering if the serum wasn’t… _the same_ in Joe.  In some ways, she had no doubts.  Joe was extremely smart, extremely perceptive, even for a baby.  More than James had been at this age even.  When it came to the physical things, though, Joe lagged.  He wasn’t as big.  He wasn’t as fast or strong.  Granted, he’d only been walking a few weeks now, so it wasn’t like she had a wealth of data to support her worries.  And personality factored in, as well.  Joe _was_ a quieter child, less active and less prone to demanding.  Still, from the first ultrasound until now, he’d been smaller and seemingly less, well, _physically_ enhanced.

More like her.

And she could get sick.  She had plenty of times in her life, despite the Red Room’s serum in her body.  Joe didn’t have a whole lot of contact with other children aside from Clint’s kids, but James could have easily brought something home from the park or school.    Honestly, this had been lurking in the back of her mind for months, ever since Joe had starting sitting and crawling.  She’d always noticed he’d been less physically adept than James, but she hadn’t thought anything of it.  Kids developed as they developed.  That was another truth of it all.  Still…  _It made sense._

Steve wasn’t so quick to agree.  “Bruce said he has the same genetic markers as James.  And me.”

“I know.  But he’s…”  Surely Steve had to have noticed.  Not that there was anything _wrong_ with Joe.  Far from it, in fact.  He was happy and healthy.  But he didn’t eat as much as James did because James was feeding an enhanced metabolism.  He slept more than James did, because James didn’t need sleep.  Whenever James banged things or smacked things or played rough with things, things _broke_ because he was strong.  He was a whirlwind of destruction.

Joseph wasn’t.

“I’m sure that’s not it.”  There was something in Steve’s voice.  Worry.  _Dread._   There’d been a time, back when she’d first found out she was pregnant with James, that he’d been afraid the baby _wouldn’t_ inherit the serum.  It had been a possibility, no doubt about it.  No one understood how the serum had altered Steve’s DNA, so there’d been a lot of questions about whether or not it would pass down to his offspring.  And Steve had grown up so sick, so small and weak.  He’d had a host of medical maladies that should have killed him.  Naturally, he’d been worried that the opposite could happen, that his children could somehow inherit all of that instead of the serum.  Asthma and scoliosis and a weak immune system and a bad heart.  That hadn’t happened obviously (and thankfully).  With James, they’d found out just how healthy he was immediately, and it had seemed so perfect that they hadn’t even worried with Joe.  “I’m sure it’s not.”

Steve was trying to convince himself.  She could hear it.  He wasn’t doing a good job of it, so convincing her wasn’t likely.  “If you’re worried, take him to see Bruce tomorrow.”

They didn’t talk anymore.  They didn’t go to sleep, either, at least not right away.  They were both silent, battling to let go of their worries and put an end to the day.  Steve won that fight first; finally his heartbeat slowed and his breathing evened out.  She had a harder time.  She couldn’t get the words of that mother out of her head, about how inconsolable her little one had been.  Maybe it didn’t seem likely Joe was sick, but no one could tell her it wasn’t possible.  As she lay there, though, staring into the shadows and listening to Steve sleep, she started to really think about it.  So what if he was?  It wasn’t serious, whatever it was.  He’d just been cranky and out of sorts.  If it was something major, his symptoms would be far worse.  She was worrying too much.  She knew she did that, _had_ since becoming a mother.  A mother’s fears always trumped logic and sound reasoning.  Whatever was bothering him couldn’t be that bad.  And she’d do what Steve suggested and take him to see Bruce tomorrow.  By then, Joe would probably be fine anyway.  She let herself find some solace in that as she finally dozed.

Her light sleep was interrupted by a wailing cry.  Natasha lurched up, heart pounding in shock.  Steve was already out of bed and racing across their room to go down the hall.  She followed, not even bothering to reach for her robe.  Steve was inside Joey’s room, from where the ear-piercing cries were originating.  “What’s wrong, little guy?” Natasha heard him say.  She closed James’ door more fully so the racket hopefully wouldn’t wake him.  “Nat!”

Practically panicked, she rushed to the nursery.  “What?  What?”

Steve stood at the crib, Joe tucked to his chest.  His eyes were wide.  “He’s got a fever.”

She crossed the room.  Joe was teary eyed and flushed against Steve.  Sure enough, when she laid her hand to his forehead, it was burning hot.  The baby immediately started wailing again, rubbing his face into Steve’s chest.  Steve shook his head.  “What do we do?”

She had no idea.  She’d never dealt with a sick child before, despite being a mother for almost five years.  Her brain stalled completely.  Joe looked _miserable_.  He reached for her.  As she took him from his father, she felt he was hot all over, not just on his forehead.  It was hard to stay calm with him crying so hard against her, but she swallowed down the knot in her throat and managed.  “Steve, I think there’s a thermometer in the bathroom in the first aid kit under the sink.”  She _thought_ there was.  She didn’t know for sure because they’d never needed one before.

He was gone and back in a flash, bearing the contents of the entire kit.  She could see how flustered he was because he was an uncoordinated mess as he dumped everything all over the changing table, looking for the thermometer.  Finally he fished it out and brought it over.  It was one of the new fancy ones that scanned the forehead, and he read the instructions that came with it in record time.  He switched it on and swiped it across Joe’s forehead, brushing his mussed hair back with his other hand.  It beeped, and he looked dismayed.  “What is it?” Natasha asked breathlessly, unable to keep her worry contained.  He shook his head, resetting the thermometer and taking Joe’s temperature again.  And again.  Exasperated, Natasha softly snapped, “Steve!”

“105,” he said gravely.

She blanched.  That was really high.  “Are you sure?”

“I took it three times,” he replied, going in for a fourth.  “It’s been the same every time.”  The thermometer beeped again, and he squinted at the reading before showing her.  Sure enough, the little LED screen read “105.3”.  Shocked, she looked down at Joe’s squirming body.  She could see it now as Steve turned the lights on brighter.  The baby’s eyes were glazed.  His face was flushed.  He wasn’t wailing quite as loud now.  In fact, he was a bit lethargic, sobbing emptily in Natasha’s arms.

He wasn’t just sick.  He was _really_ sick.

“How did this happen so fast?” she whispered, feeling awful and frightened and at a complete loss.

Steve didn’t look any better.  “My mother used to tell me I’d spike fevers like this.  Really fast.”

“Great.”  She didn’t mean to sound harsh, but she felt so fundamentally shaken she couldn’t help it.  “She tell you why?”

“Huh?”

“Fevers don’t just happen.  There’s something wrong with him.”

“I know that,” he responded tersely.  “What do we do?”

Natasha had to fight to stay calm.  Joe whimpered and then got louder again as she pulled him away gently to get a better look at him.  He wasn’t coughing.  He didn’t seem congested.  She couldn’t ask him what hurt, and nothing seemed obvious.  _Doesn’t matter._ Whatever was causing the problem, they could deal with it later.  The first order of business was getting his fever down.  “See if there’s any children’s Tylenol or Motrin or anything in there.”

Steve did as she asked, and she tucked Joe closer again for comfort while she waited.  “Nothin’,” he said with a frustrated sigh.  “The drugstore is open twenty-four hours.  I’ll go.”  He didn’t even give her a chance to argue with that, running out of the room.  He was passing again in a few minutes, dressed in the same jeans and shirt from before, and she heard him race down the steps.

“Dada,” Joe moaned.

“He’s coming right back,” Natasha promised.  “He went to get some medicine.  He’ll be right back, sweetheart.  We’re going to make this better, okay?”  Joe sniffled and started crying again.  “Oh, baby.  It’s okay.  Don’t cry.  Shhhh.”  That didn’t stop him.  She wandered around the nursery for a moment, too frazzled to think, holding him tightly and shushing him, swaying like she was comforting a newborn again.  _Think.  How do you treat a fever?_   She’d been sick herself before.  What had she done?  The medicine, which Steve was getting.  _And cool compresses._  She loathed to leave Joseph for even a second like this, but she had to.  “I’ll be right back, baby.  Just hold on for a couple of minutes.”  Joseph went from whining against her to absolutely screaming when she set him back in his crib.  The sound cut straight to her soul like a knife, and Natasha found herself battling tears as she ran out into the hallway.  She knocked half the towels down in the closet scrambling for a couple washcloths.  She grabbed the rinse cup from the bathtub and filled it with tepid water, making sure it wasn’t cold.  Then she raced back.  All told, she hadn’t been gone more than a minute.

Joseph was inconsolable again.  “Alright,” she whispered, trying for a smile and blinking back her tears.  “Alright.  Okay.”  She unzipped his sleeper, finding him hot to the touch underneath the thick cotton.  Pulling it off him, she tried to get him to lay down, but he was having none of that.  He keened louder and louder, reaching frantically for her, and she simply gave up, wrapping him in his blanket instead and taking the cloths, the water, and him back to the glider.  It took some doing, but she managed to snuggle him up against her while making it so she could cool his back and chest with the water.  “There we go.”  He cried louder, and Natasha couldn’t stand her guilt.  How could they have been so unprepared?  Granted, it seemed like illness was impossible with James, but they should never have assumed!  She wanted to scream she was so angry at herself.  “Shh, baby.  It’ll be okay.  Daddy’s getting it.  Daddy’s getting it.”  Here was yet another cardinal rule of parenting: when your child was sick and you couldn’t make it better, seconds were like _an eternity._   It was the worst feeling imaginable.  “Daddy’s coming.  He’ll be back soon.”

She kept swearing that over and over, her voice soft and lulling, and Joseph eventually settled back into that lethargic, listless haze again.  Truth be told, she didn’t find that any more comforting.  She tried to stay serene, humming again the songs she sang to him when he was an infant, wiping the cool cloth across his skin, trying to console herself with the fact that the drug store was only fifteen minutes away.  And children didn’t _die_ from fevers.  Of course, they didn’t.  It was a natural response to an infection, a good thing really.  _Not this high though._ Minutes passed so slowly.  Joe was quiet, not sleeping but at least not screaming anymore.  She dropped kisses into his hair and checked his temperature obsessively ( _still 105!_ ) and tried to be patient.

Steve came back shortly thereafter, bearing a few bags of stuff.  “Wasn’t sure what to get,” he admitted, a bit breathless and cold from the night outside, “so I got everythin’.”  He dumped all of _that_ on top of the pile on the changing table, sorting through it to find the children’s Tylenol.  He turned to them, staring at the little lump on her lap under the blanket.  “How is he?”

She gave a little shake of her head, trying not to betray how worried she was.  “Let’s give him some of that.”

There wasn’t time to even try.  All the sudden Joe shuddered in her arms before going completely limp.  “Joey?  Joe!” she cried.  Steve moved fast, pulling the blanket away as the little body beneath it flailed spasmodically.  Natasha couldn’t believe what was happening.  Terror unlike anything she’d ever felt left her frozen.  Some part of her brain still functioning supplied an explanation.  Joseph was having a seizure.  _A seizure._

Steve scooped him right out of her arms and laid him on the plush rug of the floor.  He knelt right beside him.  “Joey,” he gasped, his voice cracking in fear.  He gently turned the baby on his side, holding him steady there.  Joey’s legs were rigid.  His arms were jerking a bit, his hands balled into fists.  His eyes were wide and unseeing.  Natasha had lived through horrors in her life, but seeing this made her sob.  “Joey?  Joey, can you look at me?  Look at me, little guy.  Please.  God, Nat, what–”

“We should call an ambulance,” she gasped, and she was turning to run to their bedroom for her cellphone.

“Wait, wait,” Steve said, and she almost ignored him.  Almost.  “He’s coming out of it.”  She ripped around and saw that Joseph was.  The jerking had stopped, and he was relaxed, his eyes closing.  It hadn’t lasted more than thirty seconds.  She threw herself back down to the floor beside him, trying her hardest not to panic.  Steve looked absolutely stricken, his huge hand on Joey’s back, the other on his head.

Natasha resisted the urge to take the baby – _her baby ­_ – back in her arms, instead coming as close as she could.  “Joe?  It’s Mama.  Can you look at me?”  Joe’s eyelids fluttered, but then he opened them and focused.  Natasha practically sobbed.  “There you go!”

Steve choked on his own relief, slumping a bit.  “What happened?”

“Did your mother say anything about this?  When you spiked fevers?”

Steve was helpless.  And useless.  “I – I don’t know.  Maybe?”  He shook his head, reaching for the thermometer again.  The fever hadn’t come down at all.  He looked horrified and uncertain a moment, staring blankly at all the stuff he’d bought and his sick son and then his wife again.  “We need to take him to a hospital.”

That seemed… _unfathomable._ She didn’t much care for hospitals, but her inherent dislike of them wasn’t what was so distressing.  It was the fact that their child – who until now they’d thought was immune to everything – was sick enough to need one.  The statement hung in the silence of the room, both of them struggling to accept it for just a moment or two.  Then they were flying.  Together they gathered Joseph’s limp body in a blanket.  Steve was running, then, getting his phone to call Bucky.  Then he was getting James.  James’ sleepy voice was muffled down the hall, but he sounded confused as Steve rushed him through getting dressed.  Natasha didn’t even bother with clothes, stuffing her bare feet into her sneakers, keeping Joseph tightly wrapped up against her.  They were all downstairs a minute later, and Steve took Joe so she could put her coat and get James’ on him.  All of James’ earlier jealousy was gone.  She could see he was afraid.  “Mommy, what’s happenin’?”

“Joey’s really sick,” she answered, trying to put on a brave face.  “We’re taking him to a doctor.  Uncle Bucky’s going to meet us there at the doctor’s and take care of you for a while, okay?  You can go back to sleep in the car.”

Thankfully James didn’t question further.  Together Steve and Natasha loaded their sons into the car, quick and frantic.  It was tight and uncomfortable but Natasha squeezed into the back seat between James’ booster seat and Joseph’s car seat.  She couldn’t bear the thought of not being right next to him.  He was sleeping it seemed, though he kept wincing and he felt just as hot now as he had before.  Steve was driving, frantically thumbing through the contacts on his phone at the same time.  “Yeah, Tony?  Hi.  Sorry, I know what time it is.  I need to get a hold of Bruce and he’s not answering his cell.”  Steve was speeding.  She could tell.  James was silent but wide-eyed against her.  She hooked an arm around him and set her other to Joseph’s forehead.  She was _not_ making sure he was still breathing.  _She was not._   “Joey’s real sick.  He’s runnin’ a real bad fever.  105.”  Steve paused, listening to whatever Tony was saying.  “He had a seizure, Tony.  We’re just–”  He gave a shuddering breath.  “Yeah.  Yeah, alright.  Yeah, the one by our house.  Buck’s coming so you don’t need to – okay.  Alright, Tony.  Yeah.  Okay.”  Steve hung up with him.  He caught her gaze in the rearview mirror.  “Tony and Bruce will meet us there.  How is he?”

“Okay,” she answered.  She really didn’t know.

They arrived at the hospital not long after that.  She would have preferred some place more private, the infirmary at the Avengers facility or the Tower, but they were both significantly further away and it wasn’t worth the chance that Joseph could get worse.  They parked near the emergency room, and Steve immediately hopped out and came around to get James.  Natasha scooched out from her cramped position, darting around the car.  “Take him in,” she told Steve, and he hesitated but did as she asked.  Her fingers were cold and clumsy as she undid the straps of Joe’s car seat.  Then she pulled him, wrapped tightly in blankets, into her arms and ran into the emergency room.

Sometimes she was thankful that HYDRA had turned Bucky into the Winter Soldier.  Whenever their backs were against the wall, he was _there_ , quick, methodical, and exacting.  He already had James in his arms, the little boy’s head down on his left shoulder.  “What happened?” he asked in concern.

Natasha didn’t think she could manage an answer, not with how raw and terrified she felt, so instead she went to the admitting desk and left Steve to explain.  The nurse behind there, a sweet-seeming, slightly rotund woman, immediately looked up.  “My son’s sick,” Natasha gasped.  “He had a seizure about twenty minutes ago, and he has a very high fever.  I don’t know – please, can we get in to see a doctor?”

If the woman knew it was Black Widow begging her for help, she didn’t show it.  “How long did the seizure last?”

Natasha went through the story in its entirety, Joseph’s behavior and his other symptoms, while the nurse listened.  She tried not to act as riled and rattled as she felt, but it was difficult and she wondered what the point was.  If appearing desperate got them into see a doctor faster, then it seemed silly not to run with that.  Thankfully the ER was mostly deserted on this chilly, damp March night, so in no time at all, they were back with in an exam room with another nurse.

And, in no time at all, Bruce and Tony were there.

Natasha had been holding Joey as much as she could on the little exam bed, and Steve had been pacing, practically grinding his heel into the floor every time he turned, when the door opened slowly.  There was a knock, and their two friends peeked inside.  “Hey,” Bruce greeted.  He looked a little disheveled, like he’d thrown clothes on in the middle of the night and rushed over (which was sadly the truth).

Tony came in behind him, less rumpled and grinning like he always did to ease the tension.  “Amazing what forty bucks’ll get you.  Bruce is now your attending physician.”  It was a joke (again, to ease the tension), but it fell flat.  “So… rough night, huh?”

Steve looked like he’d been punched in the gut.  “Bruce, I’m so sorry to bother you like this.”

Bruce raised his hand to brush aside Steve’s concerns.  “It’s fine, Steve.  This is what friends are for.  Tash, can I…”

With great effort, Natasha released Joey and laid him on the exam table.  He’d been very quiet since waking up after the seizure, not lethargic at all but simply low key.  He was still ridiculously feverish, but Natasha had humored a thought that maybe his temperature was lower now.  His eyes were tracking much better, and he was paying attention.  Maybe this would be okay.  It was, wasn’t it?  She backed away from the bed, stiff with fear, and into Steve’s broad chest.  He set a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

Bruce came right up to Joey.  “Hey, pal.  How are you doing?”  Joey just shook his head, eyes bright and cheeks red.  “Not feeling so hot?”  Joey nodded now.  Bruce smiled.  “Mind if I take a look at you?  Just like always?”  Joe shook his head again.  “Okay.  Thanks.”

It was hard to resist the urge to interfere as Bruce went about his examination.  Natasha’s muscles were rigid, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe.  Bruce took his temperature.  It was lower, 103 now instead of above 105.  He listened to Joe’s heart and lungs.  He hooked him up to the portable pulse oximeter in the room, measuring his blood pressure and heart rate.  Then he palpated beneath his jaw and along his belly.  He peered into his eyes and mouth.  Finally he checked his ears.  “Well, here’s the problem,” Bruce finally declared, face screwed into a grimace as he looked through the otoscope.  “This is one mightily infected ear.”  Shocked, Natasha looked back at Steve.  Bruce checked the other side.  “And another one.  And he’s got a pretty inflamed throat.”

“Wait, wait…”  Steve shook his head.  “He just has a cold?”

Bruce shrugged a little.  “Yeah, think so.”  Steve was positively flummoxed.  Now there was color on his cheeks, the bright _red_ color of an embarrassed blush.  That wasn’t far from how Natasha felt.  _God._   She wanted to crawl under the exam table and hide.  “Sometimes kids can suddenly run very high fevers for no real discernible reason.  I mean, he’s got two massive ear infections, but spiking a fever like that…  It can run in families.”

Natasha turned around and looked at her husband again.  Steve’s jaw was hanging open.  “But what about the seizure?”

Bruce ran his hand comfortingly over Joe’s hair.  Joe was sucking his thumb a little.  “Febrile seizures.  Terrifying for parents but usually completely harmless.  And they also run in families.”

Natasha couldn’t get her head wrapped around this.  Her heart was warring between so much relief she wanted to cry and so much shock she wanted to scream and so much _shame_ she wanted to never show her face around them again.  They’d _overreacted?_   “Bruce, I – I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Bruce said.  “It’s okay.  If he had a seizure and a fever that high, it needed to be checked.”

“So he’s going to be okay?” Steve asked quietly, as if he, too, was beyond coherent thought.

Bruce nodded.  “Sure.  We’ll get him some antibiotics for the ears, maybe a little prescription acetaminophen to get the fever down.  Lots of fluids and plenty of rest, and he’ll be better in no time.  And don’t be alarmed if he has a seizure like that again the next time he has a high fever.  They can last in kids until they’re five or so.  Like I said, terrifying for mom and dad, but not a sign of anything serious.  Just an immature nervous system.”

“I – we – we didn’t know, and we didn’t have medicine on hand at the house because…”  Her voice trailed off, and she stared at her son’s little body on the bed.  Little.  _Little_ compared to James at this age because…  “He doesn’t have the serum, does he.”

Now Bruce’s expression pinched in reluctance.  He sighed and glanced at Tony before going to a little cart of medicine to start getting the things for his patient.  “It’s…  I think it’s not an all or none thing.  He has the genetic markers, that’s for sure.  But is he actively expressing the serum like you do, Steve?  Or like James does?”  Bruce raised his hands apologetically.  “It’s very complicated, and we don’t understand the serum enough to pull it apart.  I noticed at his check-up last month that serum levels in his blood were significantly lower than James’ at this age.  Add that to the fact that he’s smaller, eating less, seemingly not as physically strong or fast…”  All the things she’d noticed.  Something inside her _hurt_.  “And then this.  Getting sick.  I was going to wait until his next check-up to say something to you about the possibility.  I wanted to give it more time.  And more time might still do the trick, guys.  Like I said, we don’t understand the serum enough to speculate.”

“So he might start expressing it more,” Tony offered like he was fishing for the answer he wanted to hear.

Bruce sighed gently.  “I don’t know.  I can’t say no, and I can’t say yes.  But I _can_ say that he’s healthy and thriving.  Aside from this little hiccup, he’s been fit as a fiddle.”  He came over with the drugs and smiled at Joey.  “Right, champ?”

Joey was pale and exhausted.  “Mama,” he called, standing up in a saggy diaper to cling to Natasha.

“Hold him firm, Tasha,” Bruce said.  “Let’s get this is in him and that should do the trick.”

Five minutes of wailing baby later, Joseph was dosed with antibiotics and prescription fever reducers.  Natasha had him bundled up against her again, sitting in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs near the bed as Bruce went over how to give him the amoxicillin and the fever medications.  Steve was listening, which was good because she’d frankly checked out.  She was so overwrought with emotions that she was actually numb.  She looked down at Joey where he was falling asleep against her.  She could feel his fever abating.  She could feel how small and precious he was in her arms.  _He’s not expressing the serum._   Despite everything, how afraid she’d been, how embarrassed she was, _that_ was the thought that wouldn’t leave her alone.

She barely noticed when Steve walked out with Bruce and Tony, practically prostrating himself before them (unnecessarily, of course) in gratitude and humiliation.  He was back a couple of minutes later, and by then, Joey was peacefully slumbering in her arms.

Steve came closer, bent and weary with the emotional toll of this crazy escapade.  He sighed so forcefully it puffed out his lips, raising his eyebrows in some sort of acceptance of it all.  “Fun day, huh?”  She made the mistake of meeting his gaze, and that was all it took.  All the emotions she’d been trying so hard to hold in, all the worry and fear piling up all day, simply spilled over.  A few tears burned her eyes before tracking down her cheeks.  “Hey, love, hey,” Steve said.  “What’s the matter?  You heard Bruce.  He’s fine.”

She gasped a soft sob, trying in vain to hold herself together.  “I was so scared.”

“I know.”  Steve somehow got his arms around her.  “I know.  I was, too.  But it’s okay.  We did the right thing and it’s fine and now we know.”

 _Now we know._   That made it worse.  “I’m sorry,” she whimpered.

His brow furrowed in confusion.  “Sorry?  What?  What for?”  She didn’t – couldn’t – answer.  That seemed to betray her.  “About the serum thing?  No, Nat.  That’s…   It doesn’t matter.”  She wept louder, lifting Joey to kiss his forehead desperately.  “Hey.  _Hey._   Look at me.”  Steve took her face and turned it so that she had no choice but to do just that.  His eyes were a little wet but full of love and certainty.  He smiled that comforting smile of his.  “It doesn’t matter.  So what?  So what if he’s not expressing the serum?  _So what?_   We need to keep some children’s cold stuff around the house.  And we need to be prepared for this to happen again.  And… that’s it.”

“That’s it?” she whispered doubtfully.

He nodded firmly.  “That’s it.  You heard Bruce.  _He’s fine._   Happy and healthy.  Thriving.  He’s perfect.  So is James.  And so are you.”  She sighed through her next sob, forcing herself to nod.  Steve kissed her tenderly, even though her lips were chapped and red and without any make-up.  “’sides, this is another feather in the old cap, right?  Been there, done that.”

She couldn’t help but laugh.  He always knew what to say, even when it was silly or lame or ridiculous.  Parenting was a lot like that.  Notches in one’s gun belt.  Highs and lows.  Bad days but so much good.  There was no reason to be afraid or upset or worried or _disappointed._   Nothing was any different just because they knew this.  Joe was still the sweet, loving, smart, wonderful baby he’d been before now.  Steve kissed her again and then leaned down to kiss Joseph’s head.  “Come on.  Let’s go back home.”

They did.  And when they did, they put their children to back to bed.  They both slept peacefully.  Steve and Natasha slept peacefully, too.  The next morning, with the medications and some restorative rest and a good breakfast, Joseph was absolutely back to normal.

They all were.


	50. The Path of Least Resistance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** So here we are. At chapter 50. Wow. I never thought this story would get this big. Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! It's been amazing, and there's plenty more to come. Believe it or not, I still have about 35 more prompts to get through. It's incredible.
> 
> This one answers a prompt I got a long while back for Steve having to buy Natasha feminine products :-). I don't remember who sent it (sorry!), but I hope this does it justice. Enjoy!

If Steve hadn’t been so tired, this might have been funny.  Maybe.  He stood in the grocery store, cart full of food behind him, array of… _things_ in front of him.  It was late at night, past eleven o’clock, so thankfully the store was empty and there was no one around to stare or gawk at him or wonder what the heck he was doing.  Truth be told, he didn’t know what he was doing.  He’d been on automatic pilot since he’d left the house on a desperate hunt for what they needed, a list clenched in his hand and a tired, sore wife left behind with a crying newborn.  James’ first couple days home had been… wonderful and perfect and amazing, of course.  But it had been rough, too.  Steve was exhausted, more tired than he’d ever been since receiving the serum.  James been active in the womb, but Steve had never quite appreciated just how much when Natasha had complained of it.  Not that he’d brushed her off, of course, but he simply hadn’t realized exactly what she’d meant.

Now he did.  James was so strong and so _aware_ already, thanks to the serum.  They’d been told by the obstetricians and Bruce that newborns typically slept a great deal in their first weeks with a few wakeful periods here and there.  Not their son.  Their son had a world to explore and people to meet and things to do.  He also seemed to have inherited Steve’s enhanced metabolism because he was nursing almost continually.  To her credit (and she deserved _all_ the credit in the world), Natasha was really a trooper.  She hadn’t even been certain she’d wanted to nurse him a few days ago, and now she was fully committed.  And she was _committed._   Bruce had already told her it was unlikely she’d be able to produce enough milk to sustain a serum-enhanced baby, but she was giving it her all.  As tender, miserable, and exhausted as she was, she stuck to it, even if there’d been a few times over the last couple of days that Steve had caught her falling asleep in their bed or in one of their chairs or in the glider in the nursery, James cuddled up and going to town while she dozed.  And he’d been trying to give her a break, taking the baby all through the night since he’d been home, waking her only when James was inconsolably hungry.  On top of that, work hadn’t stopped, either.  He was Captain America.  He couldn’t simply disappear no matter what, so he’d been juggling a pile of paperwork and important SHIELD reports that needed to be read and returned in the midst all of this chaos as well.  Thus even with the serum, he was running on reserves.

Thankfully Laura volunteered to spend the night tonight, so she was home with Natasha and James to provide some relief.  And Steve had been sent off to restock their empty pantry and dwindling supplies.  He hadn’t even complained, too tired to do that, simply taking the list he’d been given, finding his wallet, and trudging out the car like a zombie.

And that had led him here, to the feminine care aisle, trying to figure out what it was Natasha wanted him to buy.  Everything else on the list had been easy enough to find.  Cereal and fruit.  Pasta, meat, and fresh vegetables for a few dinners Laura wanted to prepare for them while she was there and then preserve for when they needed them.  A couple of frozen and pre-made meals since cooking seemed to be impossible at the moment.  Household supplies.  Diapers.  Wipes.  Formula, given that Natasha was about ready to start supplementing their hungry baby.  Bottles.  He’d found all of that, dumping it mindlessly into the cart, wandering through the aisles, slack-jawed and maybe a bit unsteady but too fatigued to care.  He’d managed pretty well, he’d thought.

Now he was at a complete loss.

What in the _world_ did “personal things” mean?  He glanced at the list again, blinking a few times to try and clear his vision, hoping he’d read it wrong or missed something.  Nope.  That was what it said in Natasha’s very precise handwriting.  _Personal things._   He looked up again, staring at the shelves stocked full of packages and boxes of pads and tampons.  Purple and pink and flowery.  All sorts of different shapes and sizes.  Some with wings ( _what the heck is that?_ ) and some without.  Extra protection.  Thin ones and thick ones and…  His head was absolutely _spinning._

How could there be so many choices?

This wasn’t something about which he really knew anything, despite having been living with Natasha for well over three years now.  Back in his day, it had been absolutely taboo, a man being involved with something like this (not that he’d had any opportunities to be involved considering he’d never even gone on a proper date before meeting Natasha).  A woman’s private business was her business.  In this era, it wasn’t quite like that.  And he supposed, given how much more men were involved in all things domestic, he wasn’t the first husband to be tasked with this.  But couldn’t it have happened when his brain wasn’t completely mush?

Steve sighed, glancing over the many, many options again.  He tried to think, tried to picture the few times he’d seen boxes and packages like these under the sink in their bathroom.  What did they look like?  They had to have a brand, but for _some reason_ his normally eidetic memory was completely failing him.  He’d never paid attention, to be honest, and the whole thing… squicked him out just a bit.  Not that there was anything wrong with the female reproductive system, mind you.  It had brought his son into this world, and that had been the singular most amazing thing he’d ever witnessed.  It had been an honor, a beautiful moment he would never, ever forget.  However, the daily (or, in this case, monthly) operation of it all was a mystery to him, and he’d kind of like to keep it that way.  He knew after having a baby there was a lot of bleeding, and it could go on for a while.  And it wasn’t that he had a problem with blood, either.  He’d been hurt enough and seen enough wartime trauma that he had a strong stomach.  There was something about this, though…  Ugh.

“Can I help you, sir?”

The question jolted him, and he ripped around.  There was a young man behind him.  He was a high school kid, fairly well covered in acne and clearly an employee of the store.  He was staring at Steve with wide eyes.  Steve stammered, “No, no.  It’s fine.  Thanks.  I’m…”  He was too tired to realize he didn’t need to explain.  “I’m just trying to figure out which ones to get.”  It was probably fairly odd, a big guy as buff (as Natasha liked to say) as he was standing gob-smacked in the middle of the feminine care aisle in an empty grocery store late at night, so he shouldn’t begrudge the kid.  He was also too tired to feel embarrassed.  “It’s fine.  I’ve got this.”

The kid pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows.  “Okay.”  He did nothing to hide his doubt.  “I’ll, um, be up front.  You know, when you’re ready.”  He started to walk away, but he glanced over his shoulder once.  “Take your time.”

Steve gritted his teeth and forced a smile.  “Thank you.”

Left alone again, he went back to uselessly appraising the selection.  He made his uncooperative, sluggish, sleep-deprived brain _think_.  Okay, he was fairly certain she normally used tampons, but something told him that that wouldn’t be a good idea with… what she’d pushed out of there a few days ago.  Right?  That seemed logical, and it eliminated half the choices right there, so that was helpful.  Of course, now he was faced with an endless supply of options and brands on that front.  Before he could even reach for the closest, his phone beeped in his shorts pocket, startling the heck out of him again.  Grimacing and groaning in annoyance, he reached for the device and thumbed it on.  It was a text from Laura.  _“Can you get cream?”_

It was a _Eureka!_ moment, no doubt about it.  He had a phone.  _He could get help._   He quickly thumbed through the contacts on the little screen, looking for their home number.  Then he winced and changed his mind.  He couldn’t call Natasha.  First of all, she’d been sleeping when he’d left.  He couldn’t bother her with this.  The whole point of him going was _not_ bothering her.  Second…  This was seriously stupid, but it felt like a blow to his ego.  He hadn’t done much the last couple of days, not bringing James into this world or anything since then other than changing a few diapers and uselessly walking a baby around.  He should be able to manage this.  Oddly, on the heels of recently becoming a father, _this_ felt like some sort of initiation from which he’d somehow been spared.  A husbandly duty he’d never had to fulfill before.  So calling her for help was out of the question.

But he could call someone else.  Before he thought better of it, he was scrolling through his contacts and finding Clint’s number.  Clint would know.  Clint had been married for more than ten years.  Surely he’d done this before.  So Steve called him.  The line rang a couple of times, and then a very tired-sounding, very irate voice answered.  “’lo?”

If he hadn’t been so desperate for assistance, Steve would have smacked himself for not remembering what time it was.  “Barton?”

“Rogers, what the hell?”  Clint groaned.  “Just ’cause you’re not gettin’ any sleep doesn’t mean you need to share the joy.  Been there, done that, not goin’ back.”

“Sorry.”  He didn’t have the energy to deal with Clint’s crabbiness.  “I’m at the grocery store.”

“Riveting.”

“Nat needs…”  He sighed, looking back down at the list in his hand.  “Personal things.”

“Personal things?”

“ _Feminine_ things.”

There was a pause.  “And this concerns me how?”

Steve sighed, looking over the choices again.  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to buy here.  There are lots of options.”

“Yes, there are.”

If Clint had been there with him, he would have smacked him.  As it was, he struggled to summon some patience.  “I was kinda hoping you could help me figure it out.”

Another pause.  “Why would I be able to help you with that?  She’s your wife.  Haven’t you ever done this before?”

Steve winced.  “No.”

Clint gave a harsh laugh that was a bit too _ha ha, sucker!_ for Steve’s tastes.  “Then get one of everything.  Night, Cap.”  With that, he unceremoniously hung up.

Normally Steve would have bristled at the rude brush-off, but he was already considering Clint’s suggestion.   _Get one of everything._   That meant buying a lot, but it would get the job done, wouldn’t it?  Cover all his bases, so to speak?  Limit his chances of screwing this up?  He glanced back at his shopping cart, spirits falling.  It was nearly full with everything else he’d had to get, so there wasn’t exactly room.  Granted, he could probably _make_ room, but he was so tired and it would be easier not to.

And it would have been easier if his wonderful, beautiful warrior of a wife and the amazing mother of his precious newborn son had just _written down what she wanted._

Frustrated but not willing to admit defeat, he was scrolling through his contacts anew.  Clint wasn’t his only hope.  At least with Tony he didn’t have to worry about waking him up.  Probably.  He put the phone back to his ear and waited.  Sure enough, when the inventor answered, he sounded disturbingly perky for it being almost midnight.  “What’s up, Spangles?”

“I need help.”

That probably came out a _tad_ more desperate than it needed to.  Therefore, the reaction ( _overreaction_ ) was instantaneous.  “What?  Why?  Is the baby okay?  Is Natasha okay?  Is–”

“No, no,” Steve said quickly, waving his hand… well, to himself, since Tony was in the city and he was a moron.  “No.  They’re fine.  Nothing’s wrong.  That’s not it.”

Tony’s relief was audible.  “Oh.  _Oh._   Good.  What’s the problem then?”

Tony hadn’t been married as long as Clint (he hadn’t even been married as long as Steve had, for that matter), but he’d been with Pepper for years.  And he was a genius, so that had to count for something, didn’t it?  “I’m, uh…”  It wasn’t fair that he had to explain this again.  He closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his palm to his aching head and blurted it out as fast as he could.  “I’m at the store and I need to buy feminine products for Natasha and I have no idea what to get so could you please for the love of God and everything good please just help me?”

Maybe there had been a chance Tony would be decent about this and not make fun of him.  Maybe.  But about two seconds after getting all that out, Steve knew he’d made a terrible mistake.  Stark burst out laughing, laughing _hard._   Like belly-aching, head thrown back, couldn’t-get-a-breath-in _hysterics._   Steve fumed.  “Yeah, laugh it up.”

“How can you expect me not to?” Tony managed, gasping and guffawing.  “Are you making this up?”

“I’m standing here in the middle of the grocery store calling _you_ at 11:30 at night because I’m that desperate.  I haven’t slept for more than an hour for three days straight, everything hurts, and I’m pretty sure I have spit-up on my shorts.”  And shirt.  He hadn’t noticed that before.  “Do you _think_ I’m making it up?”

That just made Tony laugh harder.  Steve ground his teeth together and _glared_.  At tampons.  This was where he was at.  Glaring murder at tampons.  “Okay, okay,” Tony said after another moment of raucous enjoyment at Steve’s expense.  “Okay.”  He gave a long, giddy sigh.  “Okay, so what’s the problem exactly?”

“There are tons of choices!  What am I supposed to get?”

“Uh…”

“Choices, Tony.  Isn’t there…”  Steve threw his hand up in helpless exasperation.  “Isn’t there like a one kind fits all?  Or something like that?”

“Um…”

“You have no idea, do you.”

“Well…”  Steve rolled his eyes and came to the agonizing realization he was wasting his time.  “No.  But in my defense, I don’t even buy my own toiletries.  Everything gets delivered, and my personal assistants handle all that, so if you really want, I can get you in contact with Pepper’s PA because she’d be the one to know.  Or I can wake Pepper.  You want me to–”

“No,” Steve quickly declared.  “No.”

“Then I got nothing.”

“You’re useless.”

“Glad to be of service.”

“Goodbye, Tony.”  He pulled his phone away and jabbed his thumb in the “END CALL” button.  Then he huffed a short sigh and appraised the choices _yet again_.  This was ridiculous.  _Just get one of each._   That was the best option.

But he wasn’t willing to admit defeat.  Raising his phone once more, he scanned through the numbers until he found what probably was his last hope.  This one…  This was a real stretch.  As much as he felt behind the times (literally) most days, Thor was even more so.  He brought a whole new meaning to the term “fish out of water”.  And “blissfully ignorant”.  The prince of Asgard, for all of his prowess in battle and eons of experience, was gloriously oblivious half the time as to the details of how things worked on modern-day Midgard.  Therefore, there were fundamental doubts and questions.  For instance, did he even go shopping?  Steve had a hard time picturing it.  Would Jane entrust this task to him?  Again, he couldn’t imagine it.  And Thor didn’t even carry (or answer) his phone usually.  But…  _Desperate times._   He pressed Thor’s contact information, and the phone started to dial.

The demigod picked up surprisingly promptly.  “Steven, is anything wrong–”

“Nope.  Baby’s fine.  Natasha’s fine.  I’m fine.  We’re all fine.”  He’d learned his lesson on that one.  “I just…”

Thor’s tone was nothing but concerned and compassionate.  “You sound distressed, though.” _Because I am.  Very distressed._   “What is it?  I will think no less of you.”  And, just like that, this conversation took a turn for the oddly serious.  “Do you worry you will not be an adequate father?  I cannot speak from experience as you well know, but I doubt very much that you should have reason to be concerned.  You will be, nay, _are_ an excellent father.  Or do you fear your union with Natasha will change in the light of the new child in your lives?  That is only natural, but, again, I believe your anxieties are for naught.  Or are you experiencing some measure of neglect given her attentions are very firmly on the babe rather than on you?  Or–”

 _God._   He couldn’t let his friend go on.  “Nothing that earth-shattering,” he said.  Now he felt even stupider and more foolish for bringing this up in light of all those more serious concerns, but he’d already come this far.  He might as well go all the way.  “It’s…  I’m probably going on out a limb here, but maybe you’ll know.  Have you ever… purchased things for Jane…  womanly things?”

“Womanly things?”

He should have known he would need to spell this out.  Because this couldn’t get any more awful.  “For her period.”

“Period?”

 _Kill me now._   “For that time once a month.  You know what I’m talking about.”

“Her moon blood?”

 _Please, kill me.  Please, please, please._   “Yes.  That.”

“Natasha is ovulating already?  That is too soon after child-bearing, is it not?”

 _Kill me!_ “No, she’s just…”  He drove a hand through his mussed, unwashed hair and prayed he could survive this with his dignity intact.  “Have you ever bought any of these things for Jane?  I just need to know what kind to get.  That’s it.  We don’t need to go any further than that.  Just… help.  Please.”

Thor paused a moment like he was thinking.  Then he said, “I believe I once bought something called an ‘always’.  I’m not certain–”  _Always._   Steve frantically searched the shelves, his head speeding in relief at having _something_ to go on.  It wasn’t much, as it turned out.  _Always_ was a brand, not an answer.  There were dozens of variations, different products and such.  And Thor was still talking.  “–what sort of promise these items could be making to the fairer sex with such a name.  Still, I’m fairly certain I purchased that once.  Along with something called a ‘tampax’.  Or a ‘kotex’.  ‘Playtex’?  I’m uncertain what the state of Texas has to do with female menstruation.”  Steve literally face-palmed.  “At any rate, I fear the experience is a bit of a blur.  It was… unduly awkward.”  Thor sighed, as if he was shaking off an unpleasant memory.  “Does that aid you?”

Steve sighed.  “Not really.”

“I apologize then, Steven.  I fear I’m woefully unknowledgeable in these regards.”

“You and me both.”

“Jane is sleeping, but I could wake her and ask–”

“No,” Steve quickly answered.  “No, no.  Don’t do that.”  He sighed.  “It’s fine.  I can figure it out.”

“Of course you can,” Thor soothed.  “You are Natasha’s mate and the father of her son.  There is nothing you cannot do for her.”

Steve fought the urge to groan at the dramatics, even if it _did_ make him feel a smidge better.  “Thanks, Thor,” he heard himself say, and he surprised himself with the genuine (albeit exhausted) sincerity.  “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, my friend.  I pray you good fortunes on your quest.  Goodnight.”  With that, the demigod hung up.

Steve slowly lowered his phone.  Then he sighed.  Those were all the guys in his life who could have potentially helped him, and they’d all been useless.  _Still_ unwilling to submit, he looked through his contacts, trying to think through the cotton in his head.  Bucky?  Not likely.  Sam?  That was more possible, even if Sam wasn’t in a steady relationship.  Sam was smart and intuitive and he might know something like this.  But Steve convinced himself not to bother because he didn’t think he could stand being laughed at again (Sam wouldn’t do that, and he _knew_ that, but he was too raw and too exhausted to have faith right then).  And there was Bruce.  Eh.  He didn’t think he could tolerate a scientific explanation for anything at the moment (not post-partum bleeding at least).  Then, for one _absolutely insane_ second, he thought about calling Fury.  His thumb actually hovered over the man’s name and number, and he hesitated, seriously contemplating it.  Fury was a super spy, and he always seemed to know _everything._   Surely he’d know this.

_God, no._

So that left calling Natasha, which he’d sworn not to do.  Or calling Laura.  By now, though, he was so sick and tired of the predicament that he couldn’t bring himself to think anymore.  Sighing, he shut his phone off and put it back in his pocket.  Clint’s suggestion it was.  _The path of least resistance._ Methodically, almost mechanically, he went to the shelf and selected things, one at a time.  One of _everything._

His cart and arms full (not just full, but _brimming_ with pink packages and light blue boxes), he headed to the front of the store.  The young guy was there at one of the registers, eyeing him in unabashed shock.  Steve juggled the numerous containers of tampons and pads and liners, dumping it all on the register’s conveyor belt before turning wearily to his cart and unloading the next round.  With the entire thing covered in feminine products, the kid raised his eyebrows.  “Find everything okay?”

Steve glared at him.  “Yes, thank you,” he said tightly.  “Now ring me out.  _Please._ ”

A couple hundred dollars later (about a third of which had been spent on feminine care products – how was this his life?), he was driving back home.  He pulled into the driveway, glad to have survived the trip.  He was back to walking like a zombie as he started to unload the groceries and head into the house.

James was crying again.  Laura had him, and she was pacing around and trying to shush him, obviously attempting to delay him from eating again.  There was no “hello” or “how are you” or “how did it go”.  Nope.  “Did you get the formula?” was all she asked as Steve carried the bags into the kitchen.

Steve gave an exhausted sigh.  “Yeah.  Hold on.”  He quickly found the canister and handed it to Laura.  They moved surprisingly in sync, considering he was dead on his feet.  She made a bottle while he hushed the baby and walked him around, imploring the little bundle to keep the racket down so his mother could sleep.  It seemed to take Laura forever to get James’ milk ready, a forever of Steve trying to stay upright and patient.  Eventually she came and took the newborn with a smile, and Steve all but collapsed in the living room chair.

James immediately stopped crying, sucking happily at the bottle.  Laura watched him, swaying that sway that mothers had (Steve had never noticed it before now, but it came naturally it seemed because Natasha swayed the same way).  He drifted there a moment, watching her, feeling exhaustion suck him down.  Almost.  “Mind putting this stuff away?” Laura asked with an apologetic smile.

Steve groaned.  It took a massive amount of effort for him to push his leaden body out of the nice, comfortable chair, but he managed it.  He went to the kitchen and put away the food.  Most of it ended up where it was supposed to go.  Most of it.  He might have put a box of cereal in the refrigerator or the diapers in the pantry.  Maybe.  Before he even realized it, he was dragging himself back out to the car to grab the remainder of the groceries.

When he came back, Natasha was there with Laura, checking on James.  She was dressed in rumpled sweats and blearily blinking.  So much for the noise not waking her.  So much for all his efforts.  Now he wanted to admit defeat.  “What is all that?” she asked.

He looked down at the bags in his hands.  “Um…”  Yeah, what was all this?  Oh, right.  “Your… personal things?”

Clearly she was massively confused, stepping closer to examine the contents of the bags.  The boxes and packages, dozens of them.  Tampons and pads of all shapes and sizes and liners and…  “I just wanted…”

“You didn’t write down what you wanted.”

“Well, I figured you’d know,” she returned, “since we’ve been living together for three years now.”  There was no heat in her tone.  Maybe a bit of bewildered amusement.

“You figured wrong,” he replied guiltily, barely capable of coherent thought at this point.  He left the haul of feminine products on the floor by the kitchen and returned to the chair.  There he plopped back down, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.  “Never again, Nat.  I’m never doing this again.  You have no idea.”

She seemed flummoxed.  “What?”

“I tried – and I called…”  She cocked an eyebrow, and he winced.  “ _People_ …  And I…  I…”  He sighed, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.  “I failed.  Took the path of least resistance.”

It was quiet for a moment.  Then she came over, leaning down no matter how sore she was, no matter how tired, and ran her hand from his neck to his chin.  “Thank you,” she said, kissing him tenderly.  It felt so good, the first time they’d kissed like this in a couple days.  In what felt like forever.  Suddenly he felt better.  Just a little.  She pulled away, smiling.  “At least I won’t need any for a while.”

“Ha ha,” he grumbled, but he was pretty sure that was alright.

“Here, Steve,” Laura said, coming over with James.  She lowered the baby into his arms and gave him the bottle.  “You rest a bit while we get all this put away, okay?  Just support his head and keep the bottle there and…”  Laura was going on with instructions, but Steve wasn’t really listening.  In the crook of his arm, nuzzled right up against his chest, James was sucking on the bottle.  His blue eyes were open and hazy with contentment.  He was staring right at Steve.  He was so tiny, so precious, and his little fingers curled around Steve’s thumb.  This was the first time he’d fed his son, the first time he’d experienced this.  It was…   _Wow._   And, it was probably dumb, but with feminine products on the brain, the silly thought came through his head.  The female reproductive system had _made_ this.  With help from him, of course, but he hadn’t really done _anything._  

It was amazing.

Natasha and Laura were talking quietly in the background as they unpacked and put away the rest of the groceries.  Steve glanced over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t watching before leaning close to his son.  “Hey, big guy,” he whispered.  “Here’s a piece of advice.  When you get married one day and your wife sends you out to buy things for her?  Personal things?  Make sure she writes it all down.  Explicitly.”  The baby gurgled a little and burped around the bottle.  Steve laughed quietly.  “Good talk, son.”

“Steve?” Laura said.

Smiling still, feeling even a bit triumphant, he turned around.  “Yeah?”

“You forgot the cream.”


	51. Something Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! Don’t even ask how Valentine's Day turned into this. It ended up as a pile of angst. I guess I can't write Bucky without angst. This also answers a prompt based on [this lovely art](http://vbprodz.tumblr.com/post/132687796908/romanogers-au-thanks-to-thegraytigress-for-the) by vbprodz for Steve and Natasha in a vintage 40s look. Excuse the horrifically bad pop culture references :-P. Enjoy!

Six weeks ago, Steve had finally found Bucky.  Nothing had been the same since.  Nothing had been okay.  Nothing had been good.  It didn’t seem like anything would be again.

Steve and Sam had tracked the Winter Soldier down in Eastern Europe where he’d been (presumably) hunting HYDRA in a quest for answers or revenge (or both – they still weren’t sure).  They’d brought him back to New York right around Christmas, which had simultaneously been a blessing and a curse.  Everyone had been happy that Steve had finally found his friend, thus putting an end to what had been months of stress, tension, and concern for him.  But nobody had been terribly happy to have the Winter Soldier recovering in Stark Tower.

Natasha least of all.  She had no love for Barnes, no love and no sympathy.  Sure, she faked it well enough for her husband’s sake.  It was hard, though, because it had been less than a year since the Winter Soldier had put Steve in the ICU.  Less than a year since Barnes had shot him _four times_ and nearly let him drown during the battle over the Potomac.  It felt like a long time ago because so many things had happened since then, Steve and Natasha getting married a few months ago just one of them.  SHIELD, which had been so much of their lives, being outed as HYDRA and completely collapsing.  The Avengers reforming.  It _felt_ like a long time ago, but it wasn’t.  Barnes had shot her, nearly murdered Steve, nearly made Project: Insight a reality.  None of that had been his fault.  She knew that.  She really did.  He’d been captured and brainwashed and tortured for _seventy years_.  He’d been turned into HYDRA’s assassin unwillingly.  She _knew_ that this man was Steve’s best friend, his _brother_ , from his childhood.  He was the one who’d taken care of him and stood by him no matter what.  Someone who had helped tremendously to make Steve who he was.  And he was a link to Steve’s past, one of the last that there were.  So of course she (and everyone else) understood why this was so important.

But she didn’t like it at all.  No one did.  She (and the rest of the team) didn’t have these memories Steve cherished of the man Barnes had been before the Winter Soldier, the good man and the devoted friend and the war hero.  She only knew the monster, the one she’d met in the Red Room, the one who’d shot her in Odessa years ago, the one who’d put the man she loved in the hospital, fighting for his life.  _That_ was all she knew of him, so it was hard to have faith that Barnes deserved any help whatsoever.  It was hard to believe he could be reformed, as damaged as he was.  The man Sam and Steve had brought home from Europe had been broken in every sense of the word: filthy, wounded, and starving, confused and violent, unhinged and unstable.  As HYDRA’s maintenance dropped away, all of this _darkness_ was spilling out of his head, memories from his life before HYDRA had taken him clashing violently with memories of what he’d done in their service.  It was a terrible, miserable mess, and her husband was caught in the middle of it.

They’d been staying at the Tower this last month so that Steve could be close, could help Bucky as much as possible.  It had been an endless parade of terrible nights, of bad dreams, of madness clashing with apathy so deep that it was terrifying.  Steve had been there through it all, holding Bucky through the worst of his fits, talking him down, coaxing him back to life, trying his hardest to be the friend he knew Bucky needed.  For her own part, Natasha had helplessly watched, torn between admiring Steve all the more for how determined and unwavering he was and being furious with him for doing this to himself.  She’d kept her distance, too torn to be involved more than that, but she could see the consequences clear as day and it _killed_ her inside.  This was worse than the hunt for Bucky, than Steve’s crusade across Europe to rescue his damaged friend.  This _vigil_ Steve was keeping…  It was taking its toll on him.  So many sleepless nights, so much stress, so much anguish.  Every step forward seemed to be followed by two back, but Steve never gave up.  Bringing Bucky back didn’t end with finding him and taking him to the Tower, as everyone else (including her) had foolishly and thoughtlessly hoped.  It ended when his friend was whole again.

Natasha wasn’t sure that was possible.  And she was trying, too, trying her hardest to be supportive even though she hated Barnes for what he’d done to them and for what he was still doing to Steve.  Steve was with him all the time.  Sam was, too.  She saw the bruises on Steve’s body, saw what was happening behind the closed doors of the suite Tony had given Bucky.  Knew just how bad it was from the concerned looks Sam was giving her.  But she didn’t stop Steve, even if she hadn’t slept in the same bed with him much for weeks now.  She didn’t say anything to dissuade or discourage him no matter how much she wanted to.  Instead she patched him up and listened to his worries and kissed away his tears.  She swallowed down her doubts and did for Steve what Steve was doing for Bucky: offer her love and support.  It was nearly impossible at times, and something had to change.

That something was actually Tony’s idea, strangely enough.  The mood in the Tower had been so dark and tense for weeks, with everyone walking on eggshells around everyone else, with no one talking about the obvious elephant in the room.  If Barnes should and could be saved.  If Steve would give up.  It was like this pall choking the vigor from them all.  One morning over breakfast last week, Stark had suggested they should do something for Valentine’s Day.  She had completely forgotten that holiday was coming (not that she’d ever paid much attention to it before.  It was not an occasion she found worth celebrating, even after falling in love).  Clint had offered some input, too, perking up from darkly staring at his coffee mug.  Bruce had seemed interested in something social for the first time in weeks.  And Thor had chimed in with his ideas.  Pretty soon they were planning a party.

It wasn’t going to be much.  Just the team and their significant others.  Steve and Natasha.  Tony and Pepper.  Clint and Laura.  Bruce and Betty.  Thor and Jane.  They’d have it at the Tower, play couples’ games, eat way too much expensive food and drink too much and have a _good_ time.  Tony even suggested they do a theme: love through the decades.  It was so corny and cheesy, but Natasha latched onto it for the simple fact that it was _something._   Something about which to think and on which to focus and over which to get excited.  Pretty soon they were working that out, deciding there should be costumes and trivia and some kind of “dance off” and food themed from the times.  And pretty soon they were assigning decades.  There’d been debate (and fighting) over that.  Some decades were more fun than others, apparently.  When the argument had turned into a testosterone fest about who could pull what off better, Natasha had boldly stepped in and started assigning.  Thor and Jane had the 90s.  Bruce and Betty, the 80s.  Tony and Pepper won the 70s (but only so long as Tony restrained himself – fat chance).  Clint and Laura had the 60s.  And Steve and Natasha took the 40s.  They probably should have had the 50s, but anything else just didn’t seem right.  Furthermore, Natasha didn’t care for poodle skirts, and she felt she had veto power.  Maybe that was a little hypocritical, but all was fair in love and war as far as she was concerned.  She was married to Captain America.  Her word was law).

Besides, she knew _this_ would cheer her downtrodden husband up.

Thus preparations had been made.  Pepper had (unsurprisingly) found the idea fantastic, and she and Natasha had gladly taken up the planning reins.  The menu was planned.  Clint had taken over deciding the music, selecting love songs from the last seventy years (they probably should have stopped him.  Definitely).  Tony had assumed control over the games.  Valentine’s decorations of all shapes and sizes were ordered in and dutifully placed around the common room; the sight of Thor hanging paper hearts was one Natasha didn’t think she’d soon forget.  Bruce (of all people) was researching era-appropriate cocktails.  Just like that, the party was breathing life back into everyone.

Except Steve.  He didn’t know a thing about it.  Natasha hadn’t told him.  That was a strategic choice, as she’d been afraid if he had time to think about it he’d turn her down.  He’d done nothing but sleep (on occasion), eat (even more rarely), and take care of Bucky for weeks.  She was sure if she came at him with this and gave him time, he’d find a way to get out of it.  Some reason why Bucky couldn’t be left alone or why _he_ had to be there.  Both she and Sam agreed that an ambush would be best.

So on Valentine’s Day, they did just that.  Going into the suite was always a little ominous and off-putting.  There was a very oppressive air of pain and desperation that clung to everything in there.  Natasha hadn’t been here much, to be honest.  It was hard for her to face Barnes and keep her emotions under check.  She saw him, and her mind immediately went back to the fight on the causeway, to those dead, empty eyes staring at them.  Those long hours in the ICU, holding Steve’s hand and praying he’d survive because if she lost him, she’d be nothing and no one.  It was hard not to go to those feelings whenever she came face to face with the Winter Soldier.

Like now.  Sam was in the bathroom with Steve where Steve was washing something.  She could hear the water running, hear them arguing, hear Sam trying to convince Steve to leave.  Steve was quietly but stubbornly arguing that Bucky needed him.  The same old affair.  Natasha stood near the door of the bedroom, and Bucky himself was sitting in one of the chairs by the windows, looking out over the city.  He was pale, unshaven, eyes still so empty and ringed in darkness from insomnia.  His hair was damp from a recent wash, but it was lusterless where it fell to his shoulders.  He seemed small, defeated.  Lost.  This wasn’t the first time she’d taken pity on him, but it was the first time she really accepted it.  Barnes was here and here for good.  One way or another, he was a part of Steve’s life.  She had to come to terms with that, with all of that, no matter how unfair it was.

So did he.  She came closer, careful and tentative.  She wouldn’t show it or admit it, but part of her was deathly afraid of him.  Afraid of triggering the assassin that had trained her once, that had nearly killed her.  She knew firsthand, maybe even better than anyone, just how dangerous that assassin was.  Back in the Red Room, they’d worked together once or twice.  Of course, she hadn’t known who or what he’d been at the time.  She glanced to his metal hand where it was clenched on the arm of the chair and couldn’t help but picture it choking Steve, trying to tear out his throat.  Blinking the horrific images away, she steeled herself and made herself go closer.

He didn’t turn, staring still out at the snowy, February afternoon.  At the frozen city beyond.  It wasn’t until she was nearly in front of him that he finally turned to her.  Now there was so much pain in his eyes.  Grief.  Anger.  Regret.  The man emerging from the monster and seeing the evil he’d done.  The evil he’d done to his best friend, who hadn’t _once_ left his side throughout all of this hell.  She’d ignored it all before, too spiteful and vindictive to feel much sympathy, but now she could see that war within him.  It was a war between what he’d been made into and what he wanted to be.  She knew that so well.  Again, this wasn’t the first time she’d recognized the fact that they had a lot in common, but it was the first time she made herself _accept_ it.  They were the same in a lot of ways, maybe even in more ways than Barnes was with Steve.

She couldn’t tell if he recognized her, or, if he did, in what capacity.  As Black Widow.  As a peer.  As a SHIELD agent and enemy.  As Steve Rogers’ wife.  She supposed it didn’t matter.  She hadn’t come here to speak with him, but now she _was_ here, and the words came unbidden.  “Please stop,” she said, staring at him.  “Please.  He’s destroying himself for you.  Again he’s doing it.  And there’s no reason.  You don’t have to be their weapon.  Not anymore.”  Bucky said nothing, looking away again, but his lip quivered and he blinked back wetness.  Natasha took another step closer, swallowing down her hate and her fear and all her anger.  Tentatively she laid her hand on his.  The metal was surprisingly warm, not the cold, vicious grip of a killer but the uncertain, shaking grasp of a man struggling to hang on.  She couldn’t smile, no matter how hard she tried, but she did manage to hold his gaze and say, “If I’m good enough to love him, then so are you.”

Sam and Steve’s argument got louder as they finished up with whatever they were doing in the other room.  Natasha pulled away like she’d been burned, retreating to the other side of the bed.  “Dude,” Sam said, exasperation in his tone, doggedly following Steve out of the bathroom, “it’s Valentine’s Day.  And she’s your wife.  You should be spending time with her.”

Steve sighed, glancing between Natasha and Bucky.  “But what if–”

“There is no what if,” Sam answered, sharp with his tone.  “I can handle things by myself for one evening.  I know what I’m doing.”

Steve shook his head, slighted.  “I know, but–”

“Besides, the two of us can hang like bachelor bros,” Sam said, trying a smile now to lighten the mood.  “Right?”  That was directed at Bucky, who had donned anew that empty, deadened glaze and had returned to staring out the window.  He was shaking, tremoring ever so slightly as if being surrounded like this was too much to handle.

Steve seemed to sense that, staring sadly at his friend.  His need to _do something_ was almost palpable, radiating from his tense, unhappy form and slamming into them all like a tangible force.  But he acquiesced, probably because there was no choice.  He’d lost, and he knew it.  “Alright.”  Still, he dragged his feet about leaving, making a production out of saying goodbye to Barnes (and Barnes didn’t respond.  At all.  Natasha wanted to scream at him when she saw the pain deep in her husband’s eyes).  Eventually Steve did go, though, and Natasha led his silent, withdrawn form back to their suite.

“Pretty sure I’m going to be lousy company,” Steve declared as he collapsed on their bed.  She didn’t even have the chance to object (or tell him what she had planned) before he fell asleep.  Aching inside for this whole awful mess, she pulled off his shoes and sat beside him.  She stared into the shadows of their room, running her fingers through his hair, listening to him take deep, measured breaths, _praying_ something good came of all of this misery.  _Something will._   She made herself believe that, concentrating anew on the fun evening the team had planned.  She’d let Steve nap for an hour or so, and then they’d go.  That was just as well.  She needed the time and privacy to prepare her surprise.

As she gathered what she needed, she wondered anew where Pepper had found this cocktail dress.  It was gorgeous, a deep red with a flared skirt.  She couldn’t stop looking at it, excited despite herself, as she set down to do her hair.  She’d done some research about how to do a top reverse roll, so she set her hair into curlers and got started, rolling and pinning and fixing it into a loose, vintage look.  Extremely satisfied with that, she started on her make-up.  That took a little longer, but she wanted it perfect.  The bold eyelashes.  The rosy rouge.  The matte appearance.  The red, sultry lips.  Pleased with the end product, she got dressed, authentic stockings and heels, the dress, _everything_ as realistic as she could make it.  Then she went back into the bedroom.

Steve was still passed out, face pressed into the pillow, lightly snoring now.  He looked more peaceful than he had in weeks, so content in fact that for a moment she didn’t have the heart to wake him.  They could call this whole thing off, and it’d be okay.  He deserved to sleep.

But they deserved to have some fun, too.  Together.  Sam wasn’t expecting Steve back until the morning.  They’d go to the party, have a wonderful time, and _forget_ this for a while.  They’d eat and drink, laugh, enjoy the company of their friends.  Perhaps Valentine’s Day wasn’t traditionally celebrated like this, but it would be nice to spend some time with everyone, to be a family of sorts.  And afterward, maybe she could coax Steve into letting go.  They hadn’t been together much, let alone intimate, in a couple of weeks now with everything that had gone on.  Maybe, when all was said and done, they could be alone.

That was more enticing than she could say.  “Steve,” she said quietly, giving his shoulder a little shake.  He didn’t wake immediately, which was another sign of how worn down he was.  She tried again.  “Steve.”

The firmer jostling did the trick, and he opened sleep-muddled eyes and turned to her.  He looked adorably perplexed a moment, his brain clearly not processing what his eyes were telling him.  And why shouldn’t he be confused?  This was a blast from the past, and he was probably disoriented enough not to make any sense of it.  “Nat?”  She gave a quirk of smile.  “Why’re you dressed like…”  His eyes widened as he took her in more fully, everything from the perfectly curled and rolled hair to the make-up to the dress and shoes made to do the Lindy Hop.  He clearly didn’t know what to make of it, flabbergasted beyond coherent thought.  “Wow.”

“You wanna take me dancing tonight?” she asked.

“Uh…”

“Come on.  Get dressed.”  He rolled over, glancing down at his rumpled polo shirt and jeans.  She coolly arched an eyebrow.  “I got you something to wear.”

Steve was too shocked and enraptured (that was the word for how he was looking at her, like she was a walking dream or some such) to argue as she handed him the outfit he was supposed to wear.  High-waisted gray slacks, pleated in the front, and a shirt with suspenders and tie.  The tie was one of those that was short and cut off on a straight line instead of at angles like modern ties.  It was very vintage, and he looked _really_ good in it.  She could close her eyes and almost imagine him like this, back then in Brooklyn, going out to dance halls with Barnes.  Of course, he’d been a lot smaller then (and skinnier), which was admittedly harder to picture.  The two of them, Barnes handsome and broad, and Steve the little stick beside him as they took on the town.  She wasn’t sure how that made her feel.

It felt _ridiculously_ good, the way he was looking at her now, though.  Adoring.  Infatuated.  And, as planned, the anguish was suddenly far, far away, and the only thing that was left was a spark of excitement between them.  “I get the feeling we’re going somewhere special, all dolled up like this.”

She offered her arm to him.  “Not sure about the special part.  Happy Valentine’s Day.”  She kissed his cheek.

He looked sad and guilty.  “I – I didn’t get you anything.  Lord, Nat, I’ve been terrible to you with all of this.  I’ve–”

“Shh.”  She kissed his lips this time, liking the hint of red left there.  “That’s not what this is about.  I don’t care.  I just want you to feel good, okay?  Let’s go.”

They went.  Steve’s confusion only mounted as they headed up just a few floors.  She watched him, not even bothering to mask that she was staring.  There didn’t seem to be any darkness in his eyes now.  Just interest and a touch of excitement.  _Good._   “You look like you’ve been up to something,” he declared as the elevator went up.  His eyes drank her in again.  “Even more than the obvious.”

She smiled slyly.  “Maybe I have been.”  The elevator beeped and the doors slid open.  The sound of muffled music from the down the hall reached them, and Steve looked even more puzzled.  Natasha grabbed his arm.  “Come on.  We’re late.”

They ventured down the corridor, the song getting louder and louder as they did.  It was Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes”, famous from that movie from the 80s (she couldn’t remember the title).  Was it possible Clint had actually taken his job seriously?  It certainly seemed that way as they entered the common room, where the lights were dimmed to something cozy and even romantic and the atmosphere was, well… _loving._   And everyone was already there.  She’d somewhat expected the others wouldn’t go through with it.  But there they were.

Thor and Jane spotted them first, and the demigod was practically overwhelming them both with hugs (even though she’d seen him earlier that day).  Their attire was…  Well, Natasha had lived through the 90s (in Russia of course), but still this was faintly reminiscent of what she’d seen.  And thankfully forgotten.  Thor had on distressed jeans, thoroughly ripped at the knees, and a faded t-shirt that said “NIRVANA” on it.  On top of that he had was wearing a flannel button-down, unbuttoned, of course, and red plaid.  His hair was a little poofier than normal, and he had on a necklace.  Jane was similarly dressed, in a mismatched red plaid skirt, a baggy, bulky sweater that was gray and blue, and combat boots.  She had on way too much cheap jewelry and over-styled hair with large bangs.  “What in the world are you guys supposed to be?” Steve asked, absolutely flummoxed (and maybe a little horrified).

Jane beamed.  “Google grunge, Steve.  This was all the rage, circa 1993 in Seattle.”

“Uh, okay?”

“I do appreciate its laziness,” Thor admitted, glancing down at himself, “though I feel rather underdressed.”

“At least you got that,” Bruce commented.  He and Betty came up, and Natasha couldn’t help her laugh.  The two of them were dressed in matching baggy, cotton pants, some sort of colorful, godawful pattern that clashed hideously with the neon colored tops they wore.  Bruce’s was bright green, and Betty’s was, of course, the loudest pink imaginable.  She had also done up her hair in typical 80s style, _huge_ and tortured and crinkled.  Her makeup was as colorful and outlandish as the rest of her, and she wore a headband and plastic hoop earrings.  Bruce’s hair was gelled and styled, too.  Natasha had never fathomed the day Bruce and Betty, the two quietest, simplest people she knew, would look like this.  Bruce winced.  “There’s a reason why I repressed the 80s.”

“It’s far-out,” Tony announced.  “Not so much as this, though.”  And he struck the traditional disco pose, which looked _way_ too believable in his purple plaid three-piece suit with the biggest bell-bottoms in the world.  It didn’t seem possible that one could wear any more polyester.  Natasha burst out laughing again.  The sunglasses on his face were probably from his own collection, huge and very vintage, and he had on a ludicrous amount of tacky gold.  Pepper was shaking her head at him, her hair done in loose, floppy waves that had come straight off of Farrah Fawcett in _Charlie’s Angels_.  She was dressed in a very tight, purple disco suit that glittered in the light.  Both of them had on platform shoes that made them nearly as tall as Thor.  Natasha was starting to feel like a shrimp.

Steve looked more confused than ever.  “Is this… like that _Saturday Night Fever_ movie?”

“John Travolta has nothing on me,” Tony proclaimed, and when he started in with the dance, Clint shoved him and groaned.

Steve took their last couple in.  “And you guys are…”

“The 60s, man,” Clint replied in a pinched, drugged-out voice.  “Love and peace.”  He, too, had bell-bottom jeans on (thank God that trend had died).  Under a hemp vest, he wore a polyester shirt that was unbearably loud, an orange and red and yellow paisley print that was truly cringe-worthy.  A “peace” sign hung from his neck on a chain.  And he’d donned a wig, long and brown.  Laura matched in a loose, paisley covered dress.  Her hair was braided in places, and she wore a thin headband and heavy eye makeup.  It actually was a good look on her (it wasn’t until that moment, in fact, that she realized Laura somewhat dressed like this normally.  Loose clothes and flowery prints and the like).

Steve still seemed lost.  “We’re having a theme party?”

Tony rolled his eyes.  “It’s a couples’ party, Rogers.  Dress the decade.”  He gave Natasha a wink.  “Truth be told, though, I think it was just an excuse for Red to, well, dress in red.”  Natasha flushed and gave Stark a weak glare.  That wasn’t true (well, it wasn’t _entirely_ true).  Still, when Steve’s eyes came back to her, hungry and reverent once more, she couldn’t help the satisfaction that went through her.  It was Valentine’s and they were here and Steve was free of his worries for at least a little while.  That was the point.  “Let’s get this party started!”

So the parted started.  It was small, just their little group of ten, but it was really nice.  Clint tended the bar, serving cocktails, and they munched on hors d’oeuvres.  The talk was light, kept away from the Avengers’ latest missions and the disaster of SHIELD and, above all, Barnes.  It wasn’t like the elephant in the room that it normally was, though.  It was simply easier to ignore it, all of that pushed aside by friendship and love and good cheer.  They had dinner, and it was delicious.  As usual, Pepper went above and beyond.  There was steak tartare, risotto, gnocchi, all prepared by the best chefs in the city.  There was even fondue, and Steve actually offered up a tale of how he’d once thought fondue meant, well, something it didn’t.  Apparently it had been quite the joke back during the war amongst him, Peggy Carter, and Howard Stark.  It wasn’t often that he talked about the past so openly, without grief or sorrow haunting his tone.  Especially lately.  Now, though, he was light and free about, and they all noticed.

After dessert (which was some sort of chocolate thing, so decadent that a single bite was all one needed), they gathered for party games.  Charades (which Bruce and Betty surprisingly dominated), Pictionary (at which unsurprisingly Steve was a master), _Apples to Apples_ (which invariably led to _Cards Against Humanity_ , which only led to complete inappropriateness, particularly between Clint and Tony).  Then Tony had developed some sort of trivia game, focusing on the greatest romantic songs and movies from the last seventy years (Natasha had to carry her team’s weight with that one, needless to say, since Steve’s knowledge was pathetic.  They _really_ needed to make time to catch up on some rom-coms).  Thor was about as useless, and he and Steve sat there, shaking their heads and answering _Jerry Maguire_ or _Titanic_ to everything since those were about the only movies in this genre they’d seen.  Not that Bruce and Clint had done much better.  Tony and Pepper won this hands down, which either meant they spent way too much time watching “chick flicks” or they’d cheated (both of which were viable explanations in Clint’s book, and he wasn’t shy about loudly proclaiming that).

It only got more ludicrous when Tony’s “Decades Dance Off!” started.  Charged with doing a couple’s dance from their era, everyone seemed about ready to die of embarrassment (even with the amount of alcohol imbibed).  But, to their credit, they all did it.  Tony and Pepper managed something that seemed like it could have come from a real 70s disco, dancing in fairly good synchrony to the Bee Gees.  Tony had even put on a fake afro.  It was by far and away the most ludicrous thing ever, and most of the room couldn’t stop laughing.  Thor and Jane head-banged their way through “Bohemian Rhapsody” ala _Wayne’s World_ (so that technically made it 90s.  Technically.  Jane complained numerous times that they’d been saddled with the decade that had no dances or styles or anything worth remembering).   Bruce and Betty re-enacted the end from _Dirty Dancing_ , which had everyone guffawing loudly at how terrible it was and commenting that no one “puts Betty in the corner”.  And Clint and Laura did the twist to a compilation of 60s hits (more like, Laura did the twist and Clint stood like a stature and glared.  Still it was a valiant effort).  Natasha couldn’t quite get passed the fact that they’d all _done_ this.  Clint and Bruce normally wouldn’t have been caught dead dressed like this, engaged in this stupidity.  Thor was jovial enough about most things, but even still she would have thought this would have required more cajoling.  Even Tony, who liked extravagance (and idiocy, in a sense), wasn’t the sort to throw himself so whole-heartedly into something this embarrassing.  But they all had, and they had with a smile and open arms.  They’d done it for Steve.

And then it was their turn.  “I don’t know how to dance still.  Not like this,” Steve declared, already blushing scarlet as Natasha dragged him from the couch to the improvised dance floor.  The bleating of horns and fast paced tempo of the swing dance come on, and she pulled him closer.  “I’m terrible at the Lindy Hop.  Hopeless.”

“It’s okay.  I practiced,” she promised.  She had, actually.  A lot.  The people in the 40s didn’t mess around with their dancing, that was for sure.  Thankfully, she had enough experience herself as a dancer to pick it up (and to lead him).  Still, they took it slow.  For all the grace and talent Steve had in combat, he really was a terrible dancer.  He’d been passable at the Maria Stark Foundation Gala last year (another sweet memory just before everything had descended into chaos), but that had been slow and simple.  Now he practically had two left feet, stumbling uncertainly through the quick steps and turns even though by all accounts he should have more experience with this than her.

“You go, Cap,” Clint said, raising his beer bottle.  “Rock it.”

“Shaddup,” Steve said, blushing furiously.  He almost stepped on Natasha’s foot and groaned.  “You guys are gonna pay for this.”

“We all went through our embarrassment,” Bruce reminded from the couch, where Betty’s legs were stretched across his lap.  “So it’s your turn.  All’s fair in love.”

“And war,” Thor added.  If he smiled any harder, his face would split from the force of it.  “And this is that.  War.”

“Ah, come on,” Tony said, endlessly entertained and the ungainly display.  “This is prime blackmail material.  JARVIS, you’re filming this, right?”

“Of course, sir.”

And the commentary went on.  To his credit, though, Steve got through it, got bolder, got the hang of it.  The two left feet syndrome faded, given he was such a quick learner with the serum in his veins.  The competition (“war,” Thor reminded again) made a world of difference when it came to motivation.  And having the right partner helped, of course.  Steve was losing himself in her eyes as they danced.  A dream again.  One from years ago yet so present at the same time.  So sweet and perfect.  Far from their troubles, from all the nightmares they’d suffered.

When the song ended, he was winded, though not from the physical exertion.  His eyes were dark with love and devotion, and he lifted her against him to kiss her deeply.  The room went absolutely silent.  There was no one else in the world for this one moment.

“You’ve gotten a whole lot better at that, Stevie.”

Horrified, Natasha pulled away from Steve at the sudden voice.  Belatedly she realized the quiet was due more to surprise than out of respect for their fantasy.  She turned, seeing everyone standing, shocked and even fearful, and she followed their wide, alarmed gazes.  There at the door to the common room stood Bucky.  Sam was with him, tentative, keeping his distance to limit the perception that he was a threat but close enough just in case this went poorly.  It didn’t seem likely.  Barnes’ eyes were frightened, teary, but there was something in them she hadn’t seen before.  _Hope._

He was here.  He’d come here.  Left the prison of his mind and the isolation of his suite.  He’d come. 

“Buck,” Steve whispered.  He let Natasha go, taking a few huge, frantic steps toward his friend before he stopped himself with a seeming whole-body jerk.  Bucky flinched, backing up slightly, and fear crossed over Steve’s face.  He held himself back.  She could see him struggle to temper his relief.  It wasn’t very convincing.  “Buck, you…”

Bucky looked terrified, glancing around the couples like he was afraid of an attack (or, worse, their disgust).  No one moved or said a thing, and the tense seconds crawled by, one after another.  Natasha stood stock still, battling herself between hate and hope.  She knew what it took to trust after being damaged for so long.  She _knew._

Finally, Bucky took one small step toward Steve, opening his arms just slightly.  It was hardly anything, a minute motion that could have been mistaken for a frightened jolt.  It wasn’t, though.  It was an invitation.

Steve took it, closing the distance between them and pulling Bucky into his arms with something that was a combination of a rough sob and an unrestrained laugh.  Bucky stiffened as Steve hugged hard.  This was going to be a long road, even with this moment of progress.  A long, difficult fight.  A period of acceptance and adjustment for everyone.  Bucky was a part of Steve’s life, whether they liked or agreed with that or not.  Everyone would need to come to terms with that, with _everything_ that had happened.  It wasn’t going to be easy.  Natasha knew that.  Still, as Bucky’s eyes sought hers, shining and vulnerable and teeming with gratitude, she knew, too, that it was going to be okay.  All of this, the trials and struggles and that long, hard road…  In the end, this would be something good.


	52. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This is one is for [always-a-marvel-addict](http://always-a-marvel-addict.tumblr.com/), who requested some tickling. I worked in just a little angst :-). Enjoy!

Natasha woke up not knowing where she was.

Her disorientation (and the fear that always came with it) lasted for a split second.  Then she felt something soft but strong around her and something else hot and firm behind her and cool but unfamiliar sheets beneath her.  She smelled different fabric softener than what she used.  There were early morning shadows everywhere, deep and gray and drifting about the room around her, draped over furniture and things she didn’t recognize at first.

Then she recognized it all.  This was Steve’s apartment.  Steve’s things.  Steve’s sheets and blankets.  Steve’s bed.

_Steve._

She stiffened despite herself.  It all came back to her quickly.  The long, hard mission to Egypt that had left them both sore, exhausted, and troubled.  Arriving in DC late last night, the both of them too wired and strung out on stress and adrenaline to sleep.  Going to his apartment at his insistence because he hadn’t wanted her to be alone (and she frankly hadn’t wanted to be alone).  Devouring a frozen pizza because it had been well past two in the morning and no place had been open from which they could order food and his fridge had been empty since they’d been out of town so long.  Sitting on his couch and trying to watch something mindless on Netflix to unwind, to get their minds off the horrors they’d seen and the fight they’d barely survived.  Silent and stiff and failing.  She’d shuddered.  He’d slipped closer, wanting to comfort her, wanting comfort himself.  He’d put his arm around her.  She’d leaned unabashedly into his chest, his sturdy warmth.  He’d kissed her head, whispered assurances.  She’d turned to him as he’d leaned down to her.  She’d stared into his eyes, blue and bright and so full of love, and that was all it took.

They’d made love on his couch.  It had been slow and careful, mindful of sore bodies and aching hearts.  He’d never done this before, been intimate with someone, and she hadn’t in quite some time, so kisses had been tentative and respectful.  Touches had been hesitant.  That had only been at first, and as they eased into the moment, doubt had faded into passion.  They’d explored each other, coming together, _fitting together_ , in a way that felt so fundamentally right.  At long last they’d acted on feelings and desires that had been building and building for what had felt like forever.  Looking back on it now, it seemed sudden in a way yet truly long overdue.  She’d confessed that she’d wanted him like this for months, long before she’d kissed him in the locker room that day after training, long before she’d even been able to put words to how she felt.  And he’d told her amidst worshipping _every part of her_ that he’d dreamed of this since he’d met her, that even _then,_ when they’d hardly known each other and been timid and uncertain as new partners, _he’d wanted her_.  She hadn’t ever thought she could feel so good, not just physically, but in her soul.  Complete in a way she’d thought impossible.  Restored.  _Adored._

Maybe it was trite to think it, but it had been perfect despite his inexperience and her worries that she wasn’t good enough for him.  And when they’d lain on his couch, sliding down from the high of pleasure and panting against one another, lips to lips and skin to skin and heart to heart, she’d told him she loved him.

Thinking back on it now, _that_ was what was scaring her the most.  It wasn’t just that she’d said it, but that _he’d_ said it, too.

He’d taken her to his bed without a second thought.  _Carried her there._   Scrambled in the dark for a pair of pajama pants and given her one of his shirts.  Pulled her under his blankets like she’d always slept with him.  Cuddled up close like she’d _belonged_ with him.  Buried his face in the back of her neck and kissed her sweetly, reverently, whispering promises and affirmations and everything she’d never dreamed she’d get the chance to hear.  And he’d fallen asleep like that, clinging to her as if she was the most precious thing in his world.  His anchor.  His source of peace and happiness.  _The woman he loved._

She’d stayed awake as long as she could.  She’d been too afraid to sleep.  Her nightmares, her darkness…  She’d been afraid she’d spread that onto him, that she’d wake up screaming again and ruin this image he had of her.  Or the next day, in the glaring light of morning, there’d be doubts and denials, the things they should have felt last night.  He’d realize she wasn’t this angel.  That was what he’d called her, one of the _many_ things he called her last night that he’d definitely see she could never be.  When the morning after came, it would all fall apart, this dream they’d shared, and she was terrified of losing that now that she had it.

Well, eventually she’d fallen asleep.  And now it was the morning after.  His apartment was quiet, so absolutely silent she could hear him breathing into her neck.  She could practically feel his heart beating against her back.  He hadn’t moved at all since he’d gathered her against him.  She didn’t need to look at him to know he was still sleeping, still so peaceful and content.  _Angel._   Maybe he’d called her that, but _he_ was the one that pure and good and… and… _perfect._

She had to get out of there.

It was hard to, though.  She’d wanted this for so long that it was difficult to deprive her senses of it all.  The smell of Steve’s sheets and Steve’s blankets and _Steve_ all around her.  The warm strength and lulling security of his embrace.  She _knew_ leaving would be the right thing to do, getting out of there before he could realize the mistake he’d made.  She didn’t think she could face that.  It had been a small miracle that she’d slept soundly.  What if she had hurt him instead?  What if he witnessed her coming apart in her dreams, seen the violence of her past bleeding out of her?  What if he learned what she _really_ was?  He knew, of course.  Some things.  _The basics._   They’d been partners for a while, friends for nearly as long, and “dating”, in a sense, for a couple weeks now.  He was aware of what she’d done in the Red Room in vague, abstract terms.  He knew facts without context.  The outline of a picture, void of color and details, and when it was filled in…  She couldn’t let that happen.  She didn’t care if it was cowardly, if suddenly vanishing like this would hurt him.  It couldn’t possibly hurt him as much as staying would.  She _needed_ to go.

But she couldn’t.  She tried to make her hands move, maybe to grab his wrist and push the weight of his arms off her stomach.  Maybe untangle their legs.  Get up and find her clothes and get out.  It was impossible.  It was like her body, touched by him and loved by him and held as he was holding her, was utterly unresponsive to her mind’s demands.  Of course, it would be.  Her body wasn’t _hers_ anymore.  It was _his._   She’d given it to him the night before.  Her body and her heart and her soul.  They were all his.

So there was no going back from this.  She knew then and there that she could _never_ run.  Not from him.  She loved him too much to skulk away, to dishonor him like that.  And to deny herself what she wanted so desperately.  She _wanted_ to be his in a way she’d never wanted anything before.

Therefore, against her better judgement, she closed her eyes again, snuggling just a little deeper into his pillows, pulling his arms just a little tighter around her.  _Just a minute,_ she swore to herself, letting the fog of sleep creep over her mind again.  _Just a minute._

She went back to sleep.

Later, it was to a long, happy sigh in her ear that she opened her eyes again.  The dull darkness of early morning was gone, replaced by the cheery sunniness of a new day.  Natasha blinked hazily.  She’d emerged from such a deep sleep, the deepest she’d had in such a long time.  Maybe ever, when she really thought about it.  _Peaceful._

Another gust of a breath brushed against the back of her neck.  With it there was a kiss, a gentle tease of lips against sensitive skin, and a low rumble of his voice.  “Morning.”

Natasha’s eyes widened at that, at the way he greeted her as if _this was normal._   Again, as if she was meant to be there.  A shiver worked its way over her before she could curtail it, and Steve hummed a little and snuggled her tighter to him, adjusting the blanket at the same time to trap more of the heat of the bed into their little cocoon.  “Cold?”

Not exactly.  But she nodded because the feel of him cuddling her closer into his warmth was intoxicating.  This was another thing she couldn’t ever recall feeling.  Someone holding her like this, caring for her like this.  Steve had hugged her plenty of times in the past, and kissed her, too, but _not like this._   Not with his lips memorizing her the skin of the nape of her neck and shoulder.  Not with his hands lazily caressing her belly up to her sternum and then back down again like it was a well-worn trail yet new and wonderful all at once.  She was more than a bit ticklish, and his touch was so teasing, as unintentional as that was.  She shivered again.  “Nat?”

That doubt spilled out of her.  Her capacity to lie to him had been dwindling since they’d started seeing each other romantically, but here, with only the thin cotton of one of his undershirts between them, with his thigh slotting between hers like it was born to be there…  “I should go.”

His fingers stopped in their dance.  “What?”

Now that she’d said it, she had to follow through.  _She had to._   She moved finally, pulling away though it was nearly physically painful, wriggling from his grasp and shifting the blankets aside.  It _was_ cold.  The minute the brisk spring air touched her bare legs and arms, she shuddered.  The hardwood floor was like ice under her toes.  That motivated her to keep going for some reason, like she didn’t quite deserve to be warm with him.  “I shouldn’t stay here.  I should–”

“Nat, what’re you…  Wait.”

She couldn’t bear to turn around, couldn’t even imagine the pain on his face.  She knew him so well she could hear it in his voice.  He was so good and noble and innocent, despite everything that had happened to him.  So he wouldn’t have given _this_ , _his_ heart and _his_ body and _his_ soul, to her unless he’d meant it.  He wouldn’t have slept with her like that.  Knowing that made it harder to stand still.  _Go now._   If she turned to look at him, she’d lose her nerve.  _Go!_ “I can’t stay, Steve.”  She stood.

And he snatched her wrist before she could take a single step.  “Don’t.”  His grip was firm and implacable.  “Don’t do that.”

She swallowed the ache in her throat.  “Do what?”

“Don’t run from me.  And don’t treat this like it was a mistake.”

She sighed, closing her eyes and slumping slightly.  “I have to,” she insisted again, although her voice was soft and there was no strength behind her words.  She turned and looked at him finally, even though her eyes were welling with tears.  “Don’t you see?”

He was beautiful.  Flushed with color and mussed with sleep.  His eyes were bright and firm.  “No, I don’t see.  I don’t see anything other than you, right here and right now.”

“You don’t know me,” she replied tautly, trying to hold onto her control.  This thing before them, between them…  What she felt for him.  It was wide and vast and open and limitless, and it scared her.  It scared her more than anything ever had before.  “You don’t really.  You know about my past, but you don’t _know_ my past.  You don’t know the things I’ve done.  You don’t –  _gya!”_

He yanked her back into the bed, not harshly but very insistently.  He was Captain America and thus far too strong for her to stop, not even as she fell onto the mattress and lightly struggled.  Truth be told, that was mostly perfunctory.  The fact that he was manhandling her like this, so much surer of himself than he had been last night…  Well, it did things to her, chasing away that pain inside chief among them.  How could she be sad or afraid or regretful when he pinned her like this, when he was looking down on her like _that_ , all twinkling blue eyes and messy blond hair and quirky smiles?  He bracketed her, fists in the pillows astride her head, and trapped her beneath him.  “You think I care about any of that?”

She shook her head.  “Steve–”

“I think I got to know you pretty well last night,” he said with a smirk.  Just like that, the mood changed entirely.  He looked absolutely devious, so adorably _proud of himself,_ and that blasted away all the shadows, all the doubts.  Natasha couldn’t help but smile back at him in spite of herself.  “I got to know _lots_ of different parts of you.”

“God, that’s bad…”

“What?”  He dipped his head and kissed her.  She whimpered into it, her senses immediately feasting like she hadn’t had this in excess mere hours ago.  It was gluttonous, ravenous, ridiculous but she really couldn’t care too much.  Like at all.  Steve pulled away for a breath, looming over her, his eyes drifting down her body.  “Didn’t see a single part I didn’t like.”

“That’s worse,” she quipped.  Her voice came out much huskier than she’d intended, but she couldn’t help it.

His eyes darkened, and he leaned back a bit.  Last night everything had been shadowy, safer in a way because of it.  Now she felt more naked despite the shirt she was wearing.  She was used to men looking at her like this, undressing her with their eyes, so to speak, but the way Steve was staring at her, a mixture of wonder and hunger and unbridled desire burning in his gaze…  She shivered again.  “I know a lot about you, you know,” he said again, softer.  He slid his hands up her belly, pushing his t-shirt up a bit to bare her skin.  “I know how good it feels when you touch me.  I know how right it is when you kiss me.  I know how safe I feel with you.  I know how much I trust you.  I know your body, Nat.  I’ve watched it, drawn it.  Remember?”

She did.  She still had the picture he’d made her on her birthday last year.  She still cherished it.  “Yes.”

“I’ve seen you dance with it, fight with it, save my life and hug Clint’s kids and help the new recruits and do a million and one things that are special and amazing just because _you’re_ doing them.  How could I not want that?  I wanted _everything_ we did last night just the way we did it.  I wanted you, all of you, all of this.  I still do.”

She couldn’t stand the way he was looking at her.  She’d never been shy or bashful, but it was almost too much.  Almost.  “Steve…”

“I see it all.  It’s just as beautiful this morning as it was last night.”  She wanted to ask him how he could be so blind, but she didn’t because he wasn’t.  He wasn’t blind at all.  He just saw the world differently than she did, better, _brighter._   He saw the best in everything and everyone.  It was always daylight to him, clean and unblemished, flawless but not because there weren’t flaws.  He simply didn’t let them define anything.  He grinned, leaning down to kiss her again.  His lips were warm and sweet, soft against her own, and he slid down her chin to her throat and her chest.  “So don’t hide from me,” he murmured against the cloth of his t-shirt.  He was pushing it up higher.  “Don’t you dare tell me you’re not worthy when it’s the other way around.  Don’t even think about running.  And don’t, under any circumstances, presume to think I can’t learn whatever I need to, about you or anything else.”  He blew air over her tummy just to see the gooseflesh prickle.  “You know I’m a good student.”

“Hmm.”  She tangled her fingers in his hair.  “I know you are.”

Another blast of air had her shivering before she could stop herself, and he looked up.  “Cold?” he asked again.

“N-not really,” she stammered, wriggling a little in his grasp.

He didn’t let her go, kissing now, but it was so light and tantalizing.  A brush of his lips over her sensitive skin that had her trembling and then swallowing down a giggle, much to her dismay.  He looked up, a bit surprised, before trying that again like he needed to confirm what he’d just discovered.  This time, he was more pointed with his touch, and she outright giggled.  “Ticklish?  Really?”

Natasha shook her head.  “No.”  He went in with his fingers, dancing likely right over her stomach.  She squirmed.  “No, no.  Not at all.”

 _“Really?_   ’Cause it sure seems like you are. _”_   He went at it harder, pinning her hips with one hand and skirting along her ribs with the other, gauging her reactions.  “Where’s it the worst, I wonder?  Gotta figure this out.  Here?”  Natasha bit her lip, refusing to laugh, refusing to succumb to this.  God, it was hard, though.  That was a weak spot of hers, right on her ribs, sensitive her sides where he was trailing his fingers right now…  “Here?”  He pressed harder, grinning wickedly.  She moaned, tossing her head, and then laughed because it was impossible.  “There.  Got it.  See?  Learned something new about you already.”

“Steve, no!”

And, now that he knew, he _attacked_.  Natasha gave a very undignified squeal as he pulled the covers over them both and grabbed her midsection, tickling her ruthlessly.  She laughed loudly, deeply, unable to stop it and then not even trying as the giddy sensation assailed her.  “Steve, stop!  Stop!”  He didn’t stop, holding her down playfully and going at it with gusto.  There was no escape.  Seconds later she was a gasping, giggling mess, tears in her eyes from laughing so hard.  It felt good to do that, to laugh uncaringly.  The shadows, from the night before and mission and the whole of her life…  They were far away now.  So was the doubt.  And the fear.  And the feeling like she was somewhere she shouldn’t be.

He was grinning like the devil beneath the blanket, slowing in his assault now that she’d let all her reservations go, letting her laugh and giggle and slowly catch her breath.  He looked up at her with that sincere shine of devotion in his eyes.  “Don’t ever leave?”  This was far more of a request and less of a demand.  This betrayed that he wasn’t so certain himself, not so much of what he felt for her but that _he_ wasn’t good enough to keep her with him.

How in the world had she come to deserve anything this good?

She cupped his chin where it was at her bare midriff and smiled like a fool and let happy tears fill her eyes and shook her head enthusiastically.  “Never.”

The relief on his face was almost comical.  He kissed her thumb where it stroked across his lips before kissing his way back to her mouth.  The newfound confidence was back, and she giggled in delight at seeing it.  “Good.  ’Cause I thought it was customary for another round on the morning after.”

She smiled, hook her legs around his hips to keep him close.  “It is.”  His gaze darkened again with desire.  “But first…  My turn.”

“Your turn?  But – _ah!”_  His cry came too late, because she was already clenching her thighs tight and rolling them so she was on top straddling him.  She went right for his ribs with her fingers, tickling like crazy.  He practically wailed, scrabbling to stop her, but she was unstoppable.  “Mercy!” he cried between laughs.  “Mercy!”

“Mercy?” she growled, leaning close to him to kiss him passionately.  “That’s definitely one thing you need to know about me, Rogers.  I’m Black Widow.”  She grinned a feral, possessive grin and went right back at it.  “I don’t do mercy.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [An Old Wives' Tale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7539013) by [thegraytigress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress)




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